sit! 


•ewtc. 


GOLD   SHOD 


GOLD   SHOD 


By    Newton    Fuessle 

Author  of  "The  FlaU" 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


GOLD  SHOD 

COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
Boin  &  LTVEWGHT,  ITXC, 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


BOOK  ONE: 

THE  STRINGS 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  TWO: 

THE    BRASS       .....       :.        .       :.:      :.:      :.:       .        .          71 

BOOK  THREE: 

THE   WOOD-WIND  .      .      .     :.:     .      .      .      193 


2135S01 


Dedicated  variously  to  my  friends  and  publishers, 
Horace  B.  Liveright  and  Clarence  Britten,  who  have 
advised  with  me  tirelessly;  to  the  late  Frank  G. 
Hancock,  who  moves  through  some  of  these  pages; 
to  Cvrus  Lauron  Hooper,  who  wanted  me  to  write 
a  story  of  divided  aims;  to  George  Wm.  Sweney 
and  to  Milton  Fuessle. 


His  steed  it  is  gold  shod  and  crested  with  silver. 
His  cloak  it  is  long  and  its  lining  is  silken. 

Oh  ay,  'tis  the  guiltless  must  smart,  said  the  devil. 

PEER  GYNT. 


BOOK  ONE 
THE  STRINGS 


GOLD  SHOD 


CHAPTER  I 

TOWARD  the  close  of  a  cool  afternoon  of  March,  a 
travel-stained  top-buggy  drawn  by  a  smartly  step- 
ping black  mare,  rolled  with  an  air  of  importance  into 
the  outskirts  of  Elyria,  Ohio.  The  driver  was  a  man  of 
about  fifty,  and  there  were  pinches  of  gray  in  his  pointed 
brown  beard  and  moustache.  On  the  seat  beside  him  was 
a  black  leather  valise  containing  his  obstetrical  instru- 
ments and  medicines.  An  air  of  melancholy  brooded 
over  his  strong  features;  he  nodded  gravely  in  reply 
to  the  greetings  of  several  passers-by;  the  whole  town 
knew  Dr.  Anton  Glinden. 

The  country  doctor  listened  vaguely  to  the  drumming 
of  the  mare's  hoof-beats,  cushioned  by  the  damp  road. 
He  gazed  moodily  at  the  streaks  of  soiled  snow  that  lay 
alongside  the  road,  sullen  souvenirs  of  the  Ohio  winter. 
He  scanned  the  hickories  and  beech-trees  in  vain  for  signs 
of  spring.  His  glance  ascended  to  the  slate-hued  clouds 
that  crossed  the  path  of  the  sun  and  gave  the  skies  the 
appearance  of  tarnished  silver. 

A  stream  of  somber  musing  bore  him  back  over  the  life 
he  had  lived.  He  thought  of  his  harsh  boyhood  on  a 
Pennsylvania  farm,  with  the  ignorant  peasant  uncle  who 
had  brought  him  up,  and  the  nest  of  ill-remembered 
aunts.  He  clenched  a  mental  hand  and  shook  a  mental 
fist  at  the  memory  of  those  dead.  The  farm  from  which 
he  had  just  come  and  something  about  the  sordid  child- 
birth which  he  had  attended  lugged  these  disturbing  mem- 
ories nearer. 

As  he  drove  past  Elyria's  familiar  opera  house,  hotel, 

15 


16  GOLD   SHOD 

bank,   stores   and   hitching-posts,   Anton    was   thinking 
thoughts  that  would  have  surprised  his  townspeople. 

His  life  had  never  seemed  to  him  more  meaningless  than 
it  seemed  today.  He  groped  for  comfort  in  the  thought 
of  the  hundreds  of  lives  he  had  ushered  into  evidence,  of 
the  hundreds  of  times  he  had  arrested  death,  of  the  many 
skulls  he  had  lifted,  the  feet  and  hands  and  arms  he  had 
amputated,  the  lacerations  he  had  stitched,  the  medicines 
he  had  administered.  But  he  found  no  comfort  in  these 
reflections.  What  of  it  that  he  had  managed  a  few  child- 
births  and  prolonged  a  few  lives,  that  he  had  quieted  pains 
and  reduced  fevers?  He  seemed  almost  a  stranger  to 
himself  in  these  labors  of  the  physician. 

Anton's  mare,  catching  a  sniff  of  the  smell  of  burnt 
hoofs  from  the  blacksmith  shop,  sprang  into  a  troubled 
run. 

"Steady  there !"  commanded  Anton,  laying  tighter  hold 
of  the  reins.  "There's  something  about  all  you  beasts 
that's  pretty  much  alike." 

It  angered  him  to  reflect  that  he  was  still  driving  over 
these  roads  and  doctoring  these  people.  Its  irony  im- 
bedded itself  heavily  in  his  thoughts.  In  the  spring  of 
every  year,  he  felt  the  same  remorse  that  medicine  instead 
of  music  was  his  calling.  He  had  discovered  too  late  that 
what  he  wanted  most  was  his  piano,  his  composing.  The 
old  dream  of  going  to  Munich  presented  itself  again.  Why 
had  he  treated  so  lightly  this  hunger  for  music?  Of  all 
the  drugs  he  had  prescribed,  he  had  administered  to  him- 
self the  bitterest  pill  of  all. 

Fritz,  his  house-and-stable-man,  heard  the  buggy  roll 
through  the  porte-cochere,  and  came  limping  from  the 
barn. 

"You  can  unhitch  the  mare,"  said  Anton  in  German. 

"It  looks  for  rain,*'  ventured  the  hired  man. 

"Whenever  there's  a  cloud  in  sight,  you're  sure  to  see 
it,"  answered  Dr.  Glinden  critically.  He  picked  up  his 
satchel  and  entered  the  house. 

With  a  rustle  of  satin,  Sarah,  his  wife,  came  out  of 


GOLD   SHOD  IT 

the  library  to  meet  him.  She  was  rather  tall  and  carried 
herself  with  a  kindly  dignity  that  befitted  the  wife  of 
Elyria's  leading  physician.  There  was  an  air  of  studied 
elegance  about  her,  a  superiority  that  looked  down  with 
tolerance  upon  people  who,  lacking  the  intelligence  to 
remain  well,  required  the  professional  services  of  her  hus- 
band. Sarah  took  a  personal  interest  in  each  call  her 
husband  made,  mourned  each  fatality,  and  ascribed  every 
death,  with  staunch  Presbyterian  assurance,  to  God's  will. 

"Well,  Doctor?"  she  inquired,  moving  a  Japanese 
wicker  vase  to  the  center  of  the  marble-top  center-table* 

"It  was  a  bov,"  said  Anton. 

"How's  the  mother?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  can't  live." 

"Is  it  that  serious?" 

"There  were  complications." 

"It's  too  bad,  Anton.     Surely  you  can  do  something." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"But  that  family,  those  children  need  her.  It  doesn't 
seem  right." 

"She  had  no  business  having  another  baby.  I  told  her 
that  the  last  time.  It's  disgusting  the  way  this  trash 
breeds." 

"Don't  talk  so  brutally !" 

"My  little  saint,"  replied  the  doctor  in  honeyed  tones. 

"You  are  exasperating!" 

The  syllables  slid  like  icicles  between  Mrs.  Glinden's 
even  teeth  and  thin  lips.  She  swept  from  the  room,  and 
might  presently  have  been  heard  in  the  kitchen,  address- 
ing Ernestine,  her  cook,  in  crisp  sentences. 

The  home  of  the  Glindens,  like  its  master,  was  distin- 
guished with  an  air  that  would  have  been  sought  in  vain 
in  most  of  the  Elyria  abodes  of  the  1880's.  On  the  walls 
were  some  excellent  etchings  and  French  prints ;  figures 
and  landscapes  in  oil  had  made  their  appearance  among 
the  portraits  of  Sarah  Glinden's  parents  and  grand- 
parents which  stared  upon  this  changing  household  of 
their  descendants.  Beside  the  brick  fireplace  stood  a  spin- 


18  GOLD   SHOD 

ning  wheel  of  elder  days.  Carefully  selected  titles 
ranged  upon  the  shelves  of  the  tall  bookcases  of  walnut, 
mainly  Elizabethan  in  character,  when  not  medical.  The 
riff-raff  of  the  ordinary  bookcases  was  absent.  Bound 
volumes  of  The  Ladies'  Repository,  tall  and  prim  upon 
the  bottom  shelves,  were  the  only  indications  of  the  read- 
ing taste  of  Sarah  Glinden.  In  the  broad  hallway,  ad- 
joining the  sitting  room,  stood  a  square  piano.  On  a  little 
shelf  at  the  half-way  landing  of  the  stairs  beyond,  was  a 
bust  of  Dante. 

After  the  evening  meal,  Anton  retired  to  his  consulta- 
tion office,  a  little  room  off  the  sitting  room,  closed  the 
door,  and  began  pacing  to  and  fro.  Years  of  thoughtful 
footsteps,  first  his  father-in-law's  and  now  his,  had  worn 
a  path  diagonally  across  the  successive  carpets  of  the 
room.  He  was  deep  in  thought.  But  his  mind  was  not 
on  his  professional  cares,  his  sick,  his  dying.  He  was 
thinking  of  a  young  woman,  Ida  Dunseath  by  name,  who 
had  an  appointment  to  call  this  evening  to  consult  him 
about  her  invalid  father,  He  was  glad  that  she  was 
coming ;  he  found  her  remarkably  refreshing. 

Pacing  quietly  up  and  down  the  lamp-lit  room,  Dr. 
Glinden  was  thinking  of  what  a  fine  appearance  Miss  Dun- 
seath made  on  horseback.  He  remembered  the  pleasure 
with  which  he  always  lifted  his  brown  felt  hat  upon 
passing  her  on  the  road ;  he  thought  of  her  chirpy  greet- 
ing; of  the  richness  of  color  with  which  riding  had 
adorned  her  slender  face.  His  thoughts  leaned  hungrily 
toward  her  warm  young  body  and  delightful  personality. 

He  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  wife  she  would  have 
made  him.  Sarah  Glinden  was  all  right,  of  course;  she 
was  a  good  woman ;  a  good  mother  to  Ames,  their  son ; 
an  admirable  housekeeper;  an  estimable  hostess.  He  had 
had  his  reasons  for  marrying  her.  But  she  did  not  know 
how  to  love  a  man.  They  couldn't  put  him  in  a  strait- 
jacket. 

The  doctor  paused  in  front  of  the  little  desk  at  which 
he  wrote  his  prescriptions.  He  gazed  wearily  at  the 


GOLD   SHOD  19 

pigeon-holes,  stuffed  with  old  letters,  and  at  the  row  of 
medical  volumes  on  the  shelf  above.  How  would  it  be, 
he  wondered,  to  write  a  romantic  letter  some  day  at  this 
desk  ?  Gallant  phrases  crossed  his  mind.  He  drifted  into 
a  charming  reverie. 

Hearing  voices  outside  his  door,  his  manner  changed. 
He  assumed  his  habitual  air  of  professional  decorum. 
There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"Ida  is  here,"  said  Mrs.  Glinden,  opening  the  door. 

"I  will  see  her,"  answered  the  doctor.  "Ah,  Miss  Dun- 
seath !  You  look  well." 

"Oh,  there's  never  anything  the  matter  with  me,"  she 
said  with  a  laugh. 

The  doctor  closed  the  door.  He  questioned  her  thought- 
fully about  her  father,  listened  gratefully  to  her  pleasing 
voice,  made  occasional  suggestions,  complimented  her 
upon  the  care  with  which  she  had  carried  out  his  previous 
instructions. 

"Your  father  is  doing  as  well  as  can  be  expected,"  he 
said.  "Keep  him  on  a  strict  diet.  Guard  against  ex- 
citement. We'll  change  his  medicine,"  he  added,  writing 
a  new  .prescription.  "I'll  run  in  and  see  him  in  a  few 
days." 

And  now,  as  Anton  sat  regarding  his  visitor,  her  glow 
of  youth  and  strength  seemed  to  cross  the  room  to  him 
like  tangible  currents.  All  of  a  sudden  Ida  meant  every- 
thing to  him  that  the  studied,  orderly  trend  of  his  dull 
and  stodgy  life  here  in  Elyria  had  withheld.  Nearness 
to  this  woman  of  twenty-five  made  him  feel  young  and 
intrepid.  His  eyes  caressed  the  passive  white  hands  that 
lay  in  her  gray  velvet  lap.  An  impulse  took  abrupt 
possession  of  him. 

"You  are  charming,"  he  said  to  her. 

She  gave  an  excited  little  laugh. 

"Do  you  say  that  to  all  of  your  patients?"  she  asked. 

"Decidedly  not.  You  are  very  different.  You  make 
me  forget  myself." 


20  GOLD   SHOD 

"Why,  Doctor !"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  agitated  chal- 
lenge in  her  eyes. 

"I  want  to  forget  myself,"  he  continued  in  low  tones. 
"I've  been  unable  to  get  you  off  ray  mind.  But  what  an 
absurd  thing  to  say  at  my  age." 

"You  seem  to  be  no  older  than  a  man  ought  to  be," 
said  the  other,  flirting. 

Anton  was  flattered.  It  filled  him  with  a  delightful 
trepidation,  with  restlessness.  It  made  him  aware  of  new 
needs  and  desires.  It  made  him  realize  how  empty  his 
life  had  been  these  late  years,  how  stupid  and  old-mannish. 

"You  are  a  splendid  horsewoman,"  he  observed.  "Some- 
time we  must  go  for  a  canter  together." 

"Oh,  I'd  like  nothing  better !" 

"I  shall  have  every  young  man  in  town  green  with 
envy  of  me,"  said  Anton  with  satisfaction. 

"Flatterer." 

"I  should  have  suggested  it  long  ago." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"Because  I  am  a  solemn  old  family  doctor." 

"You  don't  seem  at  all  solemn  to  me." 

"I  don't  feel  solemn  when  I  look  at  you.  I  feel  young. 
Even  romantic,"  said  Anton,  lowering  his  voice  and  look- 
ing intensely  at  his  companion.  "I'm  going  to  kiss  you." 

Other  women  had  figured  in  his  life  both  before  and 
since  his  marriage.  During  his  medical  college  days  in 
Chicago,  and  later  in  Cleveland  and  Cincinnati,  there  had 
been  occasional  unimportant  intrigues,  furtive  and  soon 
forgotten.  But  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  allowed 
himself  any  latitude  with  women  in  Elyria.  Already  the 
brief  conversation  with  Ida  hung  like  trophies  in  his 
mind,  like  forerunners  of  chase  and  conquest. 

Sarah,  far  from  being  deceived,  stood  outside  the  door 
listening.  Acting  upon  a  suspicious  intuition,  she  had 
gone  to  the  closed  door  of  the  consultation  room,  and 
heard  the  entire  dialogue.  She  could  hardly  believe  it. 
It  was  her  first  intimation  that  Anton  was  capable  of  this 


GOLD   SHOD  21 

sort  of  thing.  She  was  unprepared  for  it,  unschooled  as 
to  how  to  act.  The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  in- 
furiated she  was  that  Anton  should  conduct  himself  like 
this  under  her  very  nose. 

The  heat  of  her  startled  resentment  cooled  down  in 
time,  and  she  kept  her  knowledge  clothed  in  emphatic 
reserve.,  But,  with  disillusionment  came  distrust,  and 
with  distrust  came  an  exaggerated  dignity,  a  haughty 
scorn,  and  the  stiff  pretence  that  she  no  longer  cared. 
The  discovery  made  her  watchful,  afraid  of  what  else 
Anton  might  do.  It  made  her  feel  intensely  alone  in  the 
world.  The  words  she  had  overheard  cast  shadows  back 
into  the  past  and  on  into  the  future.  The  whole  past 
of  her  married  life  became  peopled  with  misgivings ;  the 
future  filled  with  forebodings.  A  sense  of  tragedy  occu- 
pied her.  She  felt  herself  the  object  of  a  great  injustice. 
It  was  that  terror  that  comes  to  a  woman  of  middle-age 
when  she  perceives  for  the  first  time  that  youth  has 
invaded  her  rights  in  the  contest  for  hold  upon  a  man. 
She  began  thinking  of  revenge,  began  speculating  as  to 
what  manoeuvers  might  prove  the  most  effective. 

Anton  had  never  loved  her;  but  Sarah  did  not  have 
the  temperament  to  perceive  that.  At  thirty  Anton  had 
made  his  first  visit  to  Elyria;  he  came  as  a  teacher  of 
music  at  a  little  Pennsylvania  seminary  for  girls,  on 
tour  with  his  glee  club.  He  was  a  momentous  figure  to 
Sarah,  who  sat  with  her  parents  in  one  of  the  front  pews 
of  the  Presbyterian  church  where  the  concert  was  given. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  gazed  upon  a  man 
and  deemed  him  romantic.  Sarah  was  a  serious  creature, 
somewhat  mannish  in  demeanor,  the  only  child  and  the 
heir  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Fennell. 

After  the  concert,  Sarah  and  her  parents  had  conducted 
Anton  to  their  carriage  and  driven  him  home  as  their 
guest  for  the  night.  The  imaginative  Anton  had  been 
impressed  with  the  doctor's  carriage  and  home,  his  library, 
his  professional  standing.  He  had  recalled  that  it  was 


22  GOLD    SHOD 

the  custom  for  country  doctors,  upon  retiring  from  serv- 
ice, to  confer  their  practice  upon  a  chosen  successor. 

"Why  couldn't  I  step  in  here  in  time?'*  Anton  had 
asked  himself. 

Ever  since  his  boyhood,  divided  aims  had  troubled  him ; 
his  desire  to  be  a  musician  had  been  balanced  against  a 
desire  to  be  a  physician.  "This  is  my  chance,"  he  thought. 
"Why  not?  What  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  possess  this 
practice.  How  would  it  be  to  marry  Sarah  and  study 
medicine?"  That  night,  he  lay  awake  for  hours  in  the 
four-poster  bed  of  the  guest  chamber,  and  appraised 
the  situation.  It  engrossed  him. 

Anton's  decision  to  woo  Sarah  issued  from  a  romance 
of  career,  rather  than  any  romance  of  sex.  Where  others 
toiled  on  into  careers  for  the  sake  of  justifying  them- 
selves before  their  women,  Anton  made  love  to  this  woman 
for  the  sake  of  making  his  way  into  a  more  attractive 
career. 

Sarah  yielded  contentedly  to  Anton's  abrupt  atten- 
tions. They  were  as  unexpected  to  her  as  they  were 
flattering.  Her  parents  were  pleased.  From  the  first 
they  had  viewed  with  provincial  respect  the  artistic  ac- 
complishments of  this  newcomer  into  their  narrow  world. 

Anton  and  Sarah  were  soon  married,  and  Anton  hurried 
to  Chicago  to  begin  the  study  of  medicine.  But  there 
were  hours  of  forebodings  at  finding  himself  entering 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  thicket  of  this  pursuit,  so 
alien  to  his  temperament.  After  the  toil  of  the  labora- 
tories, after  the  ghastly  strain  of  the  dissecting-room, 
he  would  wander  fatigued  through  the  Chicago  streets, 
while  smoky  twilights  cast  the  walls  of  red  and  brown  into 
deeper  hues,  thinking  of  the  piano  in  his  rented  room. 
And  presently,  when  he  struck  the  beloved  keys  and  lashed 
favorite  passages  from  the  instrument,  its  flood  of  music 
sang  to  him  in  reproachful  voices  of  the  dreams  he  had 
abandoned. 

Sarah  did  not  care  for  Chicago.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  at  her  mending  or  embroidering,  longing  for  Elyria, 


GOLD   SHOD  23 

dreaming  of  the  pleasant  past.  After  that  first  autumn 
and  winter  in  Chicago,  she  spent  almost  all  of  the  re- 
mainder of  her  husband's  student  years  at  home  with 
her  people,  musing  on  the  time  when  he  should  be  the 
leading  doctor  of  Elyria. 

"A  fine  man,"  thought  the  town-folk  when  their  new 
family  doctor  made  his  appearance  among  them  and 
began  taking  over  the  practice  of  his  father-in-law.  "A 
fine  doctor,"  they  assured  each  other. 

And  until  the  moment  of  her  discovery  of  Anton's 
gestures  in  the  direction  of  Miss  Dunseath,  twenty  years 
after  their  marriage,  Sarah  had  never  had  serious  cause 
not  to  share  fully  and  unquestioningly  the  town's  esteem 
of  her  husband.  Prior  to  her  discovery,  Mrs.  Glinden 
heard  her  share  of  the  gossip  that  infests  small  town 
society,  but  always  with  the  satisfied  consciousness  that 
there  was  an  inferior  streak  somewhere  in  the  people 
talked  about,  something  common  and  detestable  about 
people  who  could  engage  in  or  even  incur  suspicion  of 
adulterous  intrigues.  That  Anton,  her  husband,  or  Ames, 
their  son,  might  ever  develop  such  unspeakable  pro- 
pensities, had  never  entered  her  fancies. 

One  consequence  of  her  discovery  was  the  development 
of  a  subtle  change  in  her  conception  of  the  future  of 
Ames,  who  was  at  that  time  in  his  senior  year  at  Oberlin. 
He  was  a  shy  and  sensitive  fellow,  a  dreamer  and  a 
bookworm.  The  development  in  his  son  of  these  artistic 
impulses  Anton  had  watched  with  pleasure,  and  had 
encouraged  Ames  in  his  aspiration  to  fit  himself  for  a 
chair  of  literature  in  some  college.  A  career  in  one  of  the 
arts  having  been  denied  him,  Anton  was  delighted  with 
the  prospect  of  such  a  career  for  his  son. 

The  mother  had  perceived  all  this  with  secret  disap- 
pointment. Her  idea  of  art  was  the  framed  exhibit  of 
butterflies  and  grasses  on  the  wall  of  her  sitting-room. 
Her  ambition  for  Ames  was  to  see  him  one  of  the  man- 
agers of  the  Elyria  Lounge  Works.  Once  she  broached 
the  idea  to  Anton. 


24  GOLD    SHOD 

"What?"  he  demanded,  "you  would  shove  the  boy  into 
a  factory?  It's  the  last  place  for  him.  I'm  surprised 
at  you." 

Resentment  against  her  husband  for  that  episode  with 
Miss  Dunseath,  however,  made  it  a  fixed  object  with  her 
to  upset  Anton's  plans  for  Ames,  and  to  accomplish  her 
own.  The  brick  walls  of  the  lounge  factory  became  the 
symbol  of  her  determination.  She  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  undo  the  plan  for  Ames'  proposed  graduate 
studies,  and  to  force  him  into  something  practical.  But 
she  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  she  could  hardly 
attain  this  object  unaided.  She  cast  about  her  for  rein- 
forcements, inspecting  the  problem  on  every  side.  And 
in  the  midst  of  her  reflections  there  occurred  to  her  an 
idea  that  left  her  breathless.  She  wondered  if  she  dared 
carry  it  out?  Why  not?  It  would  prove  a  good  thing, 
she  felt  convinced,  for  Ames.  And  it  would  serve  Anton 
right. 

June  came. 

Instead  of  going  to  Oberlin  for  his  son's  graduation 
from  college,  the  doctor  decided  to  go  to  Columbus  to 
attend  an  important  meeting  of  his  state  medical  society. 
Returning  to  Elyria,  he  found  only  the  servants  at  home. 
Mrs.  Glinden  and  Ames  had  not  yet  returned. 

He  ate  his  dinner,  and  began  roaming  meditatively 
about  the  yard.  Pictorial  shadows  lay  upon  the  lawn.  A 
blue  bank  of  larkspur  grew  alongside  the  dwelling's  vines ; 
the  lilac-bushes  had  already  bloomed  themselves  out. 
Fritz  was  watering  the  pansies  and  candy-tuft ;  Ernestine 
was  picking  rambler-roses,  dolefully  humming  hymns. 

"Stop  it  a  while,"  said  the  doctor  irritably. 

Ernestine  drew  back  from  the  trellis. 

"I  meant  your  idiotic  humming,"  added  Anton. 

"It  was  only  a  church  song,"  whined  the  cook. 

"That's  just  what's  the  matter.  It's  getting  so  that  I 
hear  church  songs  wherever  I  turn,  around  here.  You 
ought  to  learn  some  good  dance  tunes,  Ernestine." 

"Oh,  Doctor !"  exclaimed  the  cook. 


GOLD   SHOD  25 

"You're  too  pious." 

Anton  strolled  to  the  back  of  the  house  and  dropped 
into  one  of  the  rustic  benches.  From  the  turf  rose  the 
moist,  fresh  odor  of  June  grass  and  earth.  A  humming- 
bird paused  at  the  wisteria,  swerved,  and  darted  passion- 
ately off  into  the  evening.  A  rope  swing,  hanging  from 
the  chestnut  tree  near  the  back  of  the  yard,  reminded 
Anton  of  the  time  when  Ames,  as  a  small  boy,  had  fallen 
from  the  swing,  bruising  his  nose  and  setting  up  a  great 
howl.  It  seemed  only  yesterday.  Yet  to-day  Ames  was 
taking  his  degree  cum  laude  at  Oberlin.  Anton  reflected 
that  he  should  have  driven  down  to  the  station  to  meet 
the  train.  He  pulled  his  beard  gravely.  By  hardly  per- 
ceptible degrees  he  had  been  letting  himself  drift  too  far 
away  from  Ames. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  thought  Anton.  "The 
boy's  all  right." 

His  plans  for  Ames  swept  strongly  to  his  mind.  The 
old  anxiety  for  the  boy's  future  came  back,  the  old 
determination  that  Ames  should  experience  none  of  that 
hapless  drifting,  that  division  of  aims  that  had  oppressed 
his  own  youth,  that  lonely  struggle  to  achieve  a  place 
for  himself  without  intelligent  sympathy  or  understanding 
to  lean  upon.  His  face  darkened  as  he  thought  of  his 
own  boyhood  on  the  farm,  laboring  barefoot  in  the 
fields,  his  muscles  and  spirit  sore  with  tasks  beyond  his 
years,  peoned  to  those  aunts  and  uncle,  fanatics  for  work, 
fanatics  for  their  primitive  religion. 

He  thought  of  his  loveless  marriage.  What  had  it 
profited  him  to  become  an  unhappy,  fettered  country 
doctor  in  exchange  for  the  brave  pictures  of  life  that 
had  illuminated  his  soul  in  the  yearning  years  of  young 
manhood?  He  longed  for  solitude  at  the  keys  of  his 
piano.  And  he  longed  for  Ida  Dunseath's  return  to 
Elyria.  She  had  been  away  on  a  visit  for  nearly  a 
month.  His  thoughts  clung  to  her  in  a  romantic  reverie. 

"There  they  are!"  cried  Ernestine,  tears  welling  into 
her  sentimental  eyes. 


26  GOLD   SHOD 

"My  boy !"  said  Anton,  wringing  the  young  man's  hand. 

"Hello,  father.     Sorry  you  were  unable  to  be  with  us.'* 

"Come  in  and  eat  your  dinner.  Mother,  how  did  you 
stand  the  trip?  Ames,  how  does  it  feel  to  have  your 
degree?  Now  for  your  Ph.  D." 

Anton  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  while  his  wife  and  son  ate 
their  belated  meal.  He  was  beginning  to  sense  an  air  of 
constraint  about  them.  It  came  to  him  with  almost  a 
shock  that  Ames  was  no  longer  a  boy,  but  a  man.  Half 
an  hour  later  found  Anton  and  his  son  seated  together 
in  the  moonlit  yard.  There  was  much  that  the  father 
wished  to  say. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  back  home  again,"  he  began.  "Now 
you  and  I  can  get  re-acquainted.  We'll  do  a  little  hunt- 
ing and  fishing.  We  might  spend  a  week  or  so  on  a  cross- 
country tramp." 

"I'd  like  nothing  better,"  said  Ames.  "Mother  says 
you  haven't  had  a  rest  in  an  age.  It  will  do  you  good  to 
get  away." 

"It's  a  thankless  work.  When  they're  well,  they've  got 
no  use  for  a  doctor.  But  the  moment  they  get  a  pain 
somewhere,  oh  how  they  want  him !  You  can  be  thank- 
ful that  you  are  not  going  to  follow  in  my  footsteps." 

"I've  never  felt  any  inclination  that  way,"  said  Ames, 
smoking  reflectively. 

"Don't  go  against  your  inclinations.  It  is  always 
foolish.  It  doesn't  pay.  I'm  going  to  see  to  it  that  you 
don't  make  a  botch  of  your  life.  Your  mother  has  a 
notion  that  you  should  become  a  manufacturer,"  added 
Anton  derisively. 

"She  has  mentioned  it,  yes." 

"That's  all  nonsense.  You  haven't  the  instincts  for  it. 
You're  not  a  bargainer.  You're  not  a  pusher.  You  are 
neither  mechanical  nor  commercial.  It  would  kill  you. 
Your  tendency  is  to  moon  over  a  book.  You  have  a 
sense  of  art.  Perhaps  you'll  write.  I  would  like  nothing 
better.  Do  you  know  what  a  father  wants  most  of  all 
to  see  in  a  son?" 


GOLD   SHOD  27 

"What?" 

"To  see  himself  prolonged;  to  see  his  own  tempera- 
mental longings  carried  out.  Do  you  suppose  this  putter- 
ing away  as  a  country  doctor  in  this  one-horse  town  has 
meant  anything  to  me?  I  should  have  stuck  to  my  music ; 
that's  where  I  belonged."  Anton  paused,  reviewing  the 
lost  years  in  disconsolate  silence.  "The  important  thing," 
he  continued,  "is  to  avoid  these  compromises.  Not  to  be 
lured  on  by  expedience,  or  by  any  momentary  impulse. 
You  can't  trust  them.  The  first  thing  you  know,  you 
are  trapped.  Don't  try  to  please  someone  else.  There 
is  always  the  inward  word." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Ames  seriously.  "Still, 
one  has  to  shoulder  his  responsibilities." 

"What  responsibilities  do  you  have  to  shoulder?  You 
talk  like  an  old  married  man." 

"That's  precisely  it.     I  am  soon  to  be  married." 

"You  are  soon  to  be  what?"  demanded  Anton. 

"Married." 

"That's  ridiculous.  Get  it  out  of  your  head.  You  have 
plenty  of  time  for  that.  I  had  no  idea  of  anything  like 
this." 

"But  when  the  lightning  strikes " 

"Before  that  kind  of  lightning  strikes  at  your  age, 
run!"  said  Anton  impatiently. 

"It's  too  late.     I've  made  up  my  mind." 

Anton  looked  at  Ames  in  silence.  He  had  grown  too 
far  away  from  his  son.  It  had  never  even  occurred  to 
him  that  this  shy  young  fellow  might  be  having  his 
romances.  A  sense  of  loss  came  over  him.  He  began 
rummaging  about  in  his  mind  for  recollections  of  what 
girls  Ames  might  know.  He  could  think  of  only  a  few. 

"You  are  making  a  great  mistake,  Ames,"  spoke  Anton 
at  length. 

"I  hope  not,  father." 

"You  are  making  the  mistake  of  your  life." 

"Mother  assures  me  that  I  am  doing  a  very  wise  thing." 

"Your  mother  is  in  no  position  to  know.     She  lacks 


28  GOLD   SHOD 

judgment  in  these  matters.  Why,  she  even  wants  you  to 
go  into  the  Elyria  Lounge  Works." 

"I  expect  to." 

"You  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  are  going  to 
take  your  Ph.  D." 

"I  can't  father.    It's  too  late." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?  I  beg  of  you  not 
to  talk  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Anton  sternly. 

"I'm  sorry  you  regard  it  as  nonsense,"  replied  the 
younger  man  soberly. 

"I  regard  it  as  absolute  nonsense.  You  have  plenty  of 
time  yet  to  think  of  getting  married.  Get  it  out  of 
your  mind." 

"That  would  be  rather  difficult,"  said  Ames  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"Why?" 

"I  am  already  married." 

"You  are  what?"  demanded  Anton. 

"I  was  married  this  afternoon  at  Oberlin.  Mother  was 
there  with  us." 

"Whom  did  you  marry?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Ida  Dunseath." 

"Who?" 

"Ida  Dunseath,"  repeated  Ames. 

"They're — nice  people,"  replied  Dr.  Glinden  faintly. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  haze  of  a  September  morning  entered  the  open 
door  and  surrounded  the  sturdy  figure  of  Dr.  Anton 
Glinden.  He  was  seated  at  his  piano,  clad  in  an  old  brown 
dressing-gown.  Past  dropping  eyelids  he  gazed  out  into 
the  yard  at  a  bed  of  early  asters,  glistening  in  the  creamy 
glow  of  early  morning. 

He  firmly  struck  a  series  of  sonorous  chords,  then  wan- 
dered off  into  an  adagio  from  Mozart.  He  tried  some 
of  his  favorite  runs,  and  stopped  abruptly,  frowning  at 
the  stiffness  in  his  fingers.  He  rubbed  his  hands  briskly 
for  a  moment,  and  began  a  passage  from  John  Sebastian 
Bach,  which  flowed  more  fluently. 

Every  morning  at  six  found  him  at  the  piano,  rousing 
the  entire  household  with  his  playing.  His  daily  contact 
with  music  had  grown  necessary  to  him.  It  set  his  nerves 
for  his  operating,  for  the  visits  to  his  sick,  his  dying. 

Anton  was  now  improvising  reflectively,  dwelling  upon 
the  patchwork  of  a  theme  that  had  troubled  him  for  years. 
It  held  yearning  and  it  held  defeat.  Some  day  he  hoped 
to  score  it ;  but  it  was  still  too  fragmentary  and  fugitive, 
like  certain  phases  of  his  life. 

In  the  midst  of  Anton's  playing,  a  small  boy  appeared 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs  in  his  night-gown.  His  brown 
hair  was  tousled  from  sleep.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
stood  gazing  with  breathless  delight  at  the  figure  at  the 
piano. 

"Play  some  more,  gran'pa,"  called  the  child. 

The  doctor  looked  up  in  surprise  at  the  white  figure 
on  the  stairs.  It  was  always  a  pleasant  surprise  to 
discover  this  attentive  audience  of  one. 

"Come,  Fielding,"  replied  Anton. 

29 


30  GOLD   SHOD 

The  child  ran  down  to  its  grandsire,  climbed  to  his  lap, 
and  kissed  the  bearded  face. 

"Now  play,"  commanded  the  youngster  with  impatience. 

"What  shall  I  play?" 

"You  know." 

The  doctor  held  the  warm  young  body  tightly  for  a 
moment,  directing  a  kindly  gaze  at  the  well-constructed, 
sensitive  face.  It  had  its  grandfather's  broad  forehead 
and  serious  eyes.  It  had  the  pretty  mouth  and  glowing 
skin  of  its  mother,  and  the  diffident  air  of  Ames,  its 
father. 

The  player  bounded  into  the  tempo  of  a  little  jig- tune 
while  his  small  companion  beamed  with  glee.  Then  the 
music  veered  into  a  meditation  and  the  face  of  the  boy 
grew  grave.  Finally,  Anton  played  a  brief  and  ringing 
passage  from  Die  Walkiire. 

"Our  time  is  up,"  declared  Anton.  The  hall-clock  was 
sounding  seven. 

Morning  after  morning  Fielding  was  awakened  by  his 
grandfather's  playing,  stole  to  the  stairs,  and  presently 
ran  down  into  the  player's  arms.  A  singular  intimacy? 
a  peculiar  intuition  joined  Anton  and  the  boy  together 
during  these  unforgettable  morning  sessions  at  the  piano. 
A  strain  of  temperament,  bridging  the  years  between  them, 
seemed  to  unite  them  in  emotional  understanding.  These 
were  great  moments  in  Fielding's  life;  it  was  almost  as 
though  portions  of  unlived  lives,  of  longings  to  be  and 
to  do,  of  fiery  yearnings  for  achievements  that  life  had 
denied  him,  were  transmitted  to  the  boy  from  the  passion- 
«,te  fibers  of  his  grandfather. 

These  played  lamentations  over  his  divided  life  issued 
from  the  piano  every  time  Anton  Glinden  sat  down  to 
play.  They  entered  Fielding  during  these  moments  with 
Anton  at  the  piano,  flooding  him  with  intangible  restless- 
ness, with  hunger  for  beauty,  and  applied  a  lasting  brush- 
work  to  the  canvas  of  his  being. 

"Come,  Fielding,"  often  said  the  grandfather  to  the 
other  on  sunny  days,  and  then  he  would  lift  the  boy  into 


GOLD   SHOD  31 

the  buggy,  take  his  place  beside  him,  and  drive  to  town 
or  out  over  the  country  roads.  These  drives  were  almost 
as  fascinating  to  the  child  as  the  episodes  at  the  piano. 
For  Fielding  there  was  always  the  delightful  sense  of 
alarm  when  the  mare  started  forward  against  her  creak- 
ing harness,  and  the  buggy  rolled  away  on  its  journey. 
He  never  grew  tired  of  watching  the  big  muscular  animal 
in  motion.  The  horsey  odor  of  the  harness,  the  switching 
tail  and  blowing  mane,  the  pull  of  the  reins  in  Anton's 
hand,  made  lasting  places  for  themselves  in  Fielding's 
memory.  There  were  exciting  moments  when  Anton  placed 
the  reins  in  the  small  hands  beside  him,  and  then  Fielding 
would  raise  his  fragile  voice  and  address  the  mare  im- 
portantly, repeating  the  commands  he  had  heard  his 
grandfather  speak. 

Anton  was  sometimes  silent  and  meditative  for  miles  at 
a  time  as  they  drove  along  fragrant  meadows  in  spring 
or  along  fields  of  russet  stubble  in  the  fall.  Again,  the 
country  doctor  would  meditate  aloud,  addressing  the 
three-year-old  boy,  but  never  in  patronizing  juvenile 
patter. 

"You  know,  Fielding,"  Anton  said  to  him  once,  "you 
are  a  peculiar  accident.  I  wonder  what's  going  to  become 
of  you.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  feel  myself  in 
you.  I  wonder  what  you're  going  to  do  with  that  part 
of  yourself.  What  serious  old  eyes  you've  got  in  that 
head  of  yours,"  he  added,  inspecting  his  companion 
gravely. 

Another  time  he  said :  "Life  isn't  going  to  be  easy  for 
you.  Don't  let  women  manage  you.  They  don't  under- 
stand it." 

Ames  Glinden,  the  boy's  father,  lacked  vitality.  Half 
an  hour's  play  with  the  youngster  usually  left  the  father 
near  exhaustion.  It  often  irritated  him  to  be  called 
upon  to  play  with  Fielding.  The  factory  was  draining 
his  strength;  it  afforded  him  no  bracing  consciousness 
that  he  was  getting  things  done;  he  sat  at  his  desk  with- 


32  GOLD   SHOD 

out  interest.  He  was  happiest  when  evening  came  and 
he  had  his  nose  in  a  book. 

"Don't  annoy  your  father.  He's  reading,"  became  one 
of  the  household  injunctions. 

It  was  far  from  a  happy  home.  Ames's  wife  was  vastly 
disappointed  in  him.  She  found  him  in  no  wise  the  im- 
pressive figure  that  she  saw  in  his  father.  She  did  not 
share  his  taste  for  books;  and  Ames  did  not  share  Ida's 
taste  for  executive  achievement  in  his  business.  The  ro- 
mantic tremor  that  had  traversed  her  during  her  unfor- 
gettable consultation  with  Dr.  Glinden  previous  to  any 
thought  of  marrying  Ames,  still  persisted  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  emotions.  What  had  Anton  Glinden  meant? 
Unable  to  speak  of  the  singular  episode,  he  kept  it  a  cher- 
ished secret.  At  times  the  unnatural  fancy  that  she 
cared  more  for  Anton  than  for  her  husband  made  devas- 
tating inroads  upon  her.  She  hated  herself  for  allowing 
any  such  terrible  idea  to  enter  her  head;  she  resented 
it  and  repulsed  it;  and  in  time  she  managed  to  transfer 
this  hatred  of  herself  into  hatred  of  Anton. 

Aware  of  the  coolness  that  had  occupied  Ida,  Anton 
adopted  a  bantering  attitude  toward  her.  In  one  of 
these  moods,  one  day  at  the  dinner  table  he  began : 

"And  how  is  my  pretty  little  daughter-in-law  to-day?" 

"What  are  you  doing,  making  fun  of  me?"  demanded 
Ida. 

"Decidedly  not." 

"I  was  never  pretty,  and  I'm  too  fat  to  be  called 
little,"  answered  Ida  irritably. 

"Doctor,  I  wish  you  would  stop  pestering  Ida.  I  know 
just  how  she  feels." 

"My  little  saint,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"Doctor,  please  stop  it!"  exclaimed  the  elder  Mrs. 
Glinden.  "You  seem  to  take  a  fiendish  delight  in  aggra- 
vating a  person."  ' 

"Not  at  all.  But  it  was  as  quiet  as  a  Quaker  meeting 
at  this  table,  and  I  decided  to  hear  a  little  conversation. 


GOLD   SHOD  33 

I  seem  to  have  succeeded  admirably.     Ida,  permit  me  to 
help  you  to  a  chop." 

"I  haven't  a  bit  of  appetite,"  said  Ida  shortly. 

"Then  you  should  consult  a  doctor,"  said  Anton 
pleasantly. 

"I  wonder  what  keeps  Ames,"  put  in  Sarah,  glancing 
at  the  clock. 

"It's  his  directors'  meeting,"  returned  Anton. 

"I  wish  his  work  weren't  so  confining,"  sighed  Sarah. 

"I  warned  him  against  it.  He  should  have  become  a 
teacher,"  declared  Anton. 

.  "I  suppose  it's  all  my  fault  that  he  didn't,"  challenged 
Ida,  beginning  to  bristle. 

"It  was  the  fault  of  circumstance,  my  dear,"  said 
Anton. 

"You  know  you  blame  me,"  said  Ida. 

"If  you  two  people  are  going  to  sit  here  and  quarrel, 
I  shall  leave  the  table,"  spoke  Sarah  sharply. 

"We  are  the  best  of  friends,"  replied  Anton,  patting 
Ida's  hand. 

"Let  me  be.  You  know  you  don't  mean  a  word  you 
say!"  exclaimed  Ida,  near  tears.  She  rose  and  left  the 
table. 

"What  a  household !"  lamented  Sarah.  "I  should  think 
you'd  know  enough  by  this  time  not  to  get  Ida  into  these 
ill  humors.  It  always  reacts  upon  Ames,  and  he's  in  no 
condition  to  put  up  with  any  of  her  bad  moods.  She's 
hard  enough  to  get  along  with  at  best !" 

"Two  women  can't  get  along  together  under  the  same 
roof,"  answered  Anton. 

"Ida  and  I  could  get  on  perfectly  together.  Why  is 
it  that  you  and  she  seem  to  antagonize  each  other  so? 
You  used  to  like  her  quite  well,"  replied  Sarah,  directing 
a  searching  look  at  her  husband. 

Ida,  having  repressed  her  earlier  attitude  toward  the 
man  whom  circumstances  had  made  her  father-in-law,  and 
having  set  up  in  its  place  a  growing  hostility  toward 
him,  had  now  introduced  an  element  of  strain  and  tension 


34  GOLD   SHOD 

into  the  household  that  affected  all  of  its  members.  An- 
ton, by  degrees,  began  to  feel  like  an  intruder  in  his  own 
home.  His  separation  from  Sarah  on  the  one  hand,  and 
from  Ames  on  the  other,  widened.  He  often  remained 
away  from  the  family  meal  at  evening,  and  rather  than 
come  in  late  for  dinner  and  confront  the  lugubrious  face 
of  Ernestine,  the  cook,  he  would  dine  alone  at  the  hotel 
and  spend  the  evening  at  his  down-town  office  in  moody 
meditation  or  scoring  fragments  of  musical  composi- 
tion. 

He  felt  nearer  to  Fielding  than  to  anybody  else  at 
home.  He  felt  joined  to  this  boy  by  temperamental  ties 
that  gratified  him  deeply.  Their  congenial  drives  over 
the  country  roads  occurred  oftener.  They  wandered 
about  the  yard  together  like  old  cronies;  they  explored 
the  barn  and  hay-loft ;  they  rarely  missed  their  morning 
recitals  at  the  piano. 

"Fielding,  you're  a  curious  fellow,  to  be  satisfied  to 
play  with  an  old  duffer  like  me,"  said  Anton.  "Some 
day  I'm  going  to  hitch  up  and  drive  away  on  a  long 
journey  and  let  you  play  with  some  of  the  youngsters. 
What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

Fielding's  lips  quivered  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Anton  gathered  the  child  into  his  arms. 

"You  sentimental  little  rascal,"  he  said.  "It's  too  bad 
you're  so  sensitive.  It's  no  way  to  be,  my  boy." 

The  winter  set  in  early.  The  white  Thanksgiving  found 
Anton  driving  miles  in  his  cutter  to  look  after  his  sick, 
and  found  Fielding  going  often  to  the  frosty  bay-window, 
and  listening  for  the  jingle  of  the  returning  sleigh-bells. 

Once,  when  the  early  twilight  of  a  winter  day  thickened 
among  the  objects  in  Anton's  library,  Ida  came  into  the 
room  to  return  a  volume  to  one  of  the  bookcases,  unaware 
for  the  moment  that  Anton  was  there.  The  sight  of  her 
graceful  figure  against  the  ruddy  lamp-light  of  the  hall- 
way beyond  gave  the  doctor  a  feeling  of  wistful  pleas- 
ure. After  all,  through  the  instrumentality  of  Ames,  his 
son,  had  he  not  won  his  way  to  possession  of  this  woman? 


GOLD    SHOD  35 

Why  could  they  not  all  have  been  good  friends  in  this 
house? 

"Oh,  I  didn't  see  you,  Doctor,"  said  Ida,  discovering 
him. 

"I  was  lost  in  meditation,"  he  replied. 

"Pardon  my  disturbing  you,"  she  returned  with  cool 
formality,  starting  away.  At  the  door,  she  encountered 
Fielding.  "Come,  dear,"  she  said,  taking  the  boy's 
hand,  "it's  high  time  for  your  supper  and  your 
bed." 

"Gran'pa,  play  animals,"  begged  Fielding,  trying  to 
pull  away  from  his  mother  toward  Anton. 

.  "Why  don't  you  let  him   come  for  a  minute?"   said 
Anton. 

"It's  past  his  bed-time  already.  I'm  trying  my  best  to 
train  him,  but  you  people  insist  upon  interfering." 

"There  is  plenty  of  time  for  him  to  sleep.  Have 
Ernestine  light  the  lamp  and  I'll  show  him  a  few  animals. 
Come,  Fielding.  Is  that  you  out  there,  Ernestine?  Light 
the  lamp." 

The  cook  struck  a  "parlor"  match  on  the  broad  sole  of 
her  shoe,  and  lit  and  adjusted  the  wick  of  the  hanging 
lamp. 

"A  little  higher,"  commanded  Anton.  "We  need  some 
light  on  the  subject." 

Fielding  stood  expectantly  between  the  knees  of  his 
grandfather,  his  eyes  intent  upon  the  flood  of  light 
against  the  wall. 

"What  shall  I  make?"  inquired  Anton. 

"A  bunny." 

Anton  locked  his  little  fingers,  raised  his  hands  to  a 
proper  point  between  the  lamp  and  the  wall,  and  began 
the  old  German  trick  of  casting  shadows  in  the  form  of 
an  animated  rabbit,  now  moving  its  ears,  now  nibbling 
its  food,  now  hopping  to  and  fro,  while  Fielding  stood  by, 
lost  in  wonder  and  delight. 

"Not  so  bad,  eh,  Ida?"  observed  Anton,  pleased  with 
the  result. 


36  GOLD   SHOD 

Ida  watched  her  father-in-law's  antics,  half  amused  in 
spite  of  herself. 

Anton  went  through  his  course  of  tricks  for  the  boy, 
casting  silhouettes  of  alligators,  bears,  kittens,  and  dogs 
upon  the  lighted  wall. 

"That's  enough  now.    It's  your  bed-time." 

"You  make  some,"  begged  Fielding,  turning  to  his 
mother. 

"Mother  doesn't  know  how,"  said  Ida.  "Say  good 
night  to  your  grandfather." 

"I'll  teach  you,"  said  Anton.  And  before  Ida  could 
resist  he  had  taken  her  hands  and  was  showing  her  how. 
"Wonderful!"  he  cried,  regarding  the  grotesque  results 
of  her  efforts.  "Draw  these  two  fingers  back  a  little 
farther — so.  Raise  the  tips  of  these  two  fingers  a  little 
higher — bravo !  See,  Fielding,  how  clever  mamma  is." 

"Oh,  I  can't,"  objected  Ida. 

"Nonsense.  You  are  a  fine  pupil,"  insisted  Anton, 
moving  her  fingers  into  the  correct  positions.  "A  little 
more  practice  and  you  will  be  perfect.  Now,  try  it  alone." 

Ida  attempted  the  feat  laughingly,  while  Fielding 
looked  on,  hugely  delighted,  and  with  Anton  pleased 
beyond  words  at  Ida's  first  display  of  cordiality  toward 
him  in  months.  For  a  moment  Anton  did  not  trust  him- 
self to  speak.  Then  he  said: 

"Your  animals  are  more  charming  than  mine." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ida,  growing  suddenly  aware,  and 
not  displeased,  that  a  family  reconciliation  had  begun. 

Day  and  night  Anton  was  kept  on  the  go  by  summons 
from  many  sick-beds.  Late  one  December  night  he 
reached  home  after  a  bitter  drive  through  the  sleet. 

Fritz,  the  stable  man,  took  one  look  at  his  master, 
and  said  with  concern: 

"You  look  bad,  Doctor." 

"I  feel  bad,"  said  Anton  through  chattering  teeth. 

Sarah  looked  with  alarm  at  the  gray  face  and  trembling 
frame,  and  hurried  him  to  bed. 


GOLD   SHOD  37 

"You  shouldn't  have  gone.  You  weren't  well,"  she 
protested. 

"I  couldn't  refuse.  It  was  a  childbirth,"  he  explained. 
"You  can  fix  me  a  poultice." 

Anton  suspected,  because  of  his  chills,  high  fever,  and 
rapid,  shallow  breathing,  that  he  had  acute  pneumonia. 
The  lung-pains  which  soon  developed  supported  his  diag- 
nosis, and  he  sent  for  one  of  his  medical  colleagues. 

Delirium  set  in:  he  thought  he  was  in  Munich  and 
talked  of  his  music  to  his  attendants  whom  he  imagined  to 
be  concertmeistern  and  conductors:  he  addressed  snatches 
of  grave  philosophic  discourses  to  Fielding,  whom  he  imag- 
ined to  be  in  the  room. 

On  the  eighth  day  the  career  of  Dr.  Anton  Glinden  came 
to  an  end,  and  again  the  solemn  parlor  heard  hymns  and 
sobbing. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  death  of  the  forefather  left  a  singular  void  in  the 
life  of  Fielding.  He  was  now  four  years  old.  He  had 
been  spared  the  knowledge  of  what  had  happened ;  and 
had  been  kept  for  three  days  and  nights  at  a  neighbor's 
home.  He  remembered  Anton's  remark  that  some  day  he 
might  play  with  some  of  the  youngsters.  But  he  had  no 
heart  to  play.  A  tragic  sense  of  aloneness  settled  upon 
him.  He  stood  at  dusk  at  the  bay  window,  watching  for 
the  return  of  the  familiar  figure  of  his  comprehending 
friend.  He  ceased  at  length  to  inquire  about  his  grand- 
father, because  it  was  disturbing  to  him  to  look  into  eyes 
that  grew  wet  and  to  listen  to  vague  and  unsatisfying 
remarks  about  the  angels.  He  felt  nearest  to  Anton  at 
night  when  he  was  in  bed  and  repeated  under  his  breath 
the  words  of  the  German  prayer  the  other  had  taught  him : 

Ich  bin  klem, 

Mein  Hertz  ist  rein — 

The  piano  in  the  spacious  front  hall  became  a  symbol 
to  Fielding  of  his  vanished  kinsman.  The  absence  of  the 
playing  in  the  morning  hurt  him.  When  the  others 
played,  there  was  something  missing  in  the  music.  It 
lacked  the  romantic  yearning,  the  mystery,  the  reaching 
out  for  strength  which  had  characterized  those  early- 
morning  recitals  of  his  grandsire. 

At  times,  Fielding  might  have  been  seen  hovering  near 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  looking  fixedly  at  the  dark  instru- 
ment, all  attention,  almost  as  though  he  heard  notes 
that  no  one  else  heard.  Sometimes,  while  at  play,  he 
would  pause  suddenly  near  the  piano  and  stand  very  still 

38 


GOLD    SHOD  39 

for  a  moment.  He  was  never  boisterous  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  piano. 

"What  makes  you  so  quiet  all  of  a  sudden?"  his  mother 
would  sometimes  ask. 

But  the  boy  never  had  an  answer. 

Ida  was  growing  more  and  more  disturbed  over  Ames' 
failure  to  display  any  enterprise  in  his  business.  She 
perceived  with  misgivings  his  temperamental  unfitness  for 
the  factory.  She  wished  she  were  a  man.  Her  high 
hopes  for  Ames  had  shrunk  and  receded.  He  was  little 
more  than  a  bookkeeper  within  the  long  gray  walls  that 
once  had  stirred  her  imagination  and  lifted  her  hopes. 
Young  fellows  with  idea,  with  push,  with  vision,  were  shoot- 
ing ahead  of  him.  One  of  these  was  already  in  Europe 
establishing  export  outlets  for  finer  grades  of  Elyria 
lounges.  Another  had  devised  a  way  to  cut  certain  uphol- 
stery costs  almost  in  half.  A  third  had  argued  the  board 
of  directors  into  opening  salesrooms  in  Chicago. 

As  Ames  labored  over  his  columns  of  figures  his 
thoughts  were  at  home  in  the  library  among  his  books. 
The  factory  was  too  much  for  him.  His  pulse  was  visible 
through  his  pallid  skin.  The  doctors  called  it  pernicious 
anaemia,  and  sent  him  to  Colorado  for  treatment. 

As  the  familiar  Ohio  farmlands  gave  way  to  the  broad 
sweep  of  the  prairies,  as  the  prairies  reared  and  roughened 
into  the  Rocky  Mountains,  Ames  felt  that  he  had  seen 
Elyria  for  the  last  time. 

Once,  divining  his  wife's  reflections,  he  said  remorse- 
fully: "It's  too  bad  I  couldn't  do  something  to  make 
you  proud  of  me." 

"You  haven't  been  well,"  replied  his  wife. 

"I've  been  fool  enough  to  stick  to  something  I  wasn't 
fitted  for.  I  should  have  had  more  sense.  My  father 
warned  me.  We  mustn't  let  Fielding  get  started  wrong." 

Fielding's  mother  pressed  her  husband's  bony  hand 
reassuringly. 

"Don't  urge  Fielding  to  go  against  his  inclinations," 
added  Ames  thoughtfully. 


40  GOLD   SHOD 

The  following  months  saw  Ida's  hopes  for  Ames*  re- 
covery rising  and  falling.  He  was  too  weak  and  wasted 
even  to  read  his  treasured  books.  The  dusky  pallor  of  his 
drawn  face  deepened.  His  shortness  of  breath  and  palpi- 
tation of  the  heart  became  more  marked. 

The  first  week  in  October,  Ida  took  the  train  for  Ohio. 
In  the  baggage  car  ahead  traveled  all  that  remained  of 
the  wasted  body  of  Fielding's  father. 

Ida  Glinden  was  a  woman  of  intense  ambitions  for  her 
men.  These  she  now  transferred  to  Fielding.  She  sold 
her  property  in  Ohio,  and  bought  a  modest  place  in  the 
genteel  Wicker  Park  saction  of  Chicago,  hoping  that  the 
spirit  and  push  of  Chicago  would  fire  Fielding  with  zeal 
to  become  a  man  of  affairs. 

Wicker  Park  was  a  little  open  space  of  grass  and 
poplar  trees,  gray  walks,  and  green  benches.  There  was  a 
substantial  dignity  about  the  houses  that  faced  it.  Most 
of  them  had  their  iron  fences,  front  lawns,  flower-beds, 
and  vines.  Some  of  them  had  their  servants,  stables, 
horses  and  carriages.  Cast-iron  fountains,  lions  and 
Newfoundland  dogs,  bestowed  their  notes  of  modest  afflu- 
ence upon  some  of  these  yards. 

As  a  girl,  Ida  had  looked  with  anxious  eyes  upon  the 
smoke-stacks  of  the  lounge  works,  imagining  herself  the 
wife  of  its  master.  In  Chicago,  she  looked  upon  the  drive 
and  turmoil  of  traction  systems,  railroad  terminals,  and 
the  Loop,  and  imagined  herself  the  mother  of  one  of  their 
future  masters.  She  adored  men  of  action  and  of  con- 
sequence. 

For  Fielding,  those  first  few  years  in  Chicago  were  filled 
with  homesickness  for  Elyria ;  for  the  long  creaking  ropes 
of  the  swing  beneath  the  hickory  tree;  for  the  familiar 
smell  of  harnesses  in  the  barn ;  for  the  horses ;  for  old 
Fritz,  the  stableman ;  for  the  great  brown  crocks  of  apple- 
butter  in  the  cellar.  But  his  homesickness  centered  chiefly 
around  his  memories  of  Anton  at  the  piano  and  the  notes 
that  flowed,  now  in  pensive  meditation,  now  in  sparkling 


GOLD   SHOD  41 

rapids.  Fielding's  heart  ached  with  the  remembered 
beauty  of  those  awakenings,  of  the  command  "Come, 
Fielding  !"|and  the  embrace  of  the  player. 

Once,  when  he  was  about  twelve,  while  a  visitor  played 
with  a  certain  skill  and  feeling,  Fielding's  mother  saw 
him  look  fixedly  at  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather,  and 
then  burst  suddenly  into  tears. 

"Why,  Field,  what's  the  matter?"  demanded  his  mother. 
Don't  you  like  her  playing?" 

There  was  a  peal  of  ignorant  laughter  from  the  guests, 
and  Fielding  jerked  away  from  his  mother  and  ran  up- 
stairs, furious  and  ashamed. 

As  the  years  went  on,  Fielding  never  gazed  at  the 
portrait  without  feelings  blent  strangely  of  sorrow  and 
elation.  He  felt  at  times  as  if  the  kindly  eyes  and  coun- 
tenance were  talking  to  him.  It  was  as  though  all  the 
sentimental  interest  in  Anton  Glinden  which  once  had 
moved  Fielding's  mother  but  had  been  suppressed,  had 
streamed  into  the  boy,  drawing  him  nearer  to  his  grand- 
father than  ever  he  had  been  to  his  father,  whose  pictures 
left  him  unmoved  and  almost  indifferent. 

One  of  his  boyhood  pastimes  was  to  clip  the  pictures  of 
distinguished  men  from  newspapers  and  magazines  and 
paste  them  in  a  scrapbook.  His  fancy  ran  to  writers, 
painters,  musicians,  actors  and  statesmen.  These  faces 
fascinated  him.  They  made  him  feel  nearer  to  his  grand- 
father. 

"Here's  a  nice  picture  for  your  book,"  said  his  mother 
once,  handing  him  a  paper  containing  the  picture  of  a 
Chicago  traction  man. 

Fielding  looked  at  it  critically. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  he  replied. 

"What  makes  you  take  only  pictures  like  this?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Glinden  with  a  glance  at  his  collection. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Field,  what  are  you  going  to  be  when  you  grow  up? 
A  doctor,  like  your  grandfather?" 


42  GOLD   SHOD 

Fielding  shook  his  head.  He  recalled  the  many  inter- 
ruptions of  play  with  his  grandfather,  due  to  hurry-calls 
from  patients,  that  made  him  feel  hostile  toward  the  med- 
ical profession. 

"You're  a  queer  fellow,"  remarked  his  mother. 

Fielding  was  vaguely  aware  that  his  mother  did  not 
quite  approve  of  his  selection  of  pictures  for  his  scrap- 
book,  and  from  now  on  he  pursued  his  collecting  less 
openly. 

Fielding  disliked  high  school.  He  had  read  Tom 
Brown's  School  Days,  had  fallen  quite  in  love  with  the 
traditions  of  Rugby,  and  longed  for  more  refined  academic 
surroundings  than  those  of  Chicago's  Northwest  Side. 
He  attended  his  classes  with  a  sense  of  detachment  and 
superiority. 

It  was  the  gymnasium  that  first  excited  his  interest. 
The  crash  and  strain  of  its  competition  were  stimulating. 
Seeing  ungainly  fellows  developing  ease  and  skill,  gave 
him  renewed  confidence  in  himself.  He  saw  an  unpromis- 
ing young  Dane  jog  around  the  running  track  week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  until  he  thought  that  the 
runner's  heart  must  beat  itself  to  pieces.  But  there  was  a 
flame  in  the  other's  eyes  that  never  vanished,  a  courage 
that  seemed  unquenchable. 

He  watched  with  interest  the  development  of  an  anaemic, 
pale-faced  fellow  who  had  resolved  to  become  a  jumper. 
An  amazing  din  rose  in  the  gymnasium,  as  this  deter- 
mined young  man  leaped  up  and  down  on  the  springboard, 
hundreds  of  times  every  day.  This  raw  tumult  of 
desire,  this  longing  to  excel,  this  deafening  turmoil,  this 
combustion  of  effort,  had  a  bracing  effect  upon  Field- 
ing. 

He  found  brave  hearts  beating  beneath  shabby  vests, 
and  virility  where  he  had  looked  only  for  manners  among 
the  Poles,  Swedes,  Germans  and  Russians  into  whose 
midst  he  had  been  thrust,  sensitive  and  unsympathetic. 
He  received  his  share  of  drubbings  at  boxing,  and  these 


GOLD    SHOD  43 

taught  him  new  facts  of  life,  bore  him  into  a  more  prac- 
tical and  less  fastidious  world. 

But  at  times,  he  revolted  against  the  life  of  the  gym- 
nasium and  locker-room,  and  their  smells  of  perspiring 
bodies,  rubber  soles,  stale  towels,  and  witch-hazel,  and  he 
would  go  moodily  to  the  library  or  to  the  drawing  room 
under  the  rafters  where  the  art  classes  met. 

Late  one  winter  afternoon,  Fielding  lingered  reflectively 
in  this  deserted  room.  He  liked  the  companionship  of  its 
easels  and  drawing-boards,  its  plaster  casts  and  prints. 
It  was  a  relief  to  him  after  the  din  of  athletics.  He  had 
no  skill  in  drawing;  but  he  was  growing  to  care  deeply 
for  the  thing  to  which  even  his  awkward  pencilings  bore 
faint  but  definite  relation.  He  could  feel  this  mysterious 
thing  called  art  laying  its  hand  upon  him.  It  made  him 
look  more  for  beauty  and  care  more  about  beauty.  He 
was  aware  of  a  growing  impulse  to  arrange  and  express,  a 
longing  to  create.  But  as  yet,  this  inner  turning  had 
found  no  gears  to  engage.  He  only  knew  that  he  felt 
more  at  ease  up  here  away  from  the  rest  of  the  school. 

During  his  musing,  he  saw  the  door  open  and  saw  a 
girl  enter  the  room.  He  recognized  one  of  his  class- 
mates, an  Adelaide  Bain.  She  sat  a  few  desks  from  him 
in  his  Latin  class ;  and  his  eyes  had  often  strayed  from 
his  text  of  Ca?sar's  Commentaries  to  dwell  upon  the  fair- 
ness of  her  skin  and  the  brownish  cloud  of  her  hair.  All 
of  a  sudden,  upon  finding  himself  alone  with  her,  his 
blood  began  to  thump. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  breathlessly.  "I  didn't  know  there  was 
anybody  here." 

"Are  you  going  to  draw?"  he  asked,  embarrassed. 

"No.     You  drawing?" 

"No,  just  fooling  around.'* 

"I  left  my  Latin  book  up  here,"  she  said,  hunting  it. 

"I'll  help'  you  find  it,"  offered  Fielding,  hoping  that  the 
book  might  not  readily  be  discovered. 

"I  was  half  way  home  before  I  missed  it.  Here  it  is," 
announced  Adelaide. 


44  GOLD    SHOD 

It  was  Fielding's  first  conversation  with  her. 

"Do  you  like  Latin?"  he  inquired,  regarding  her  fragile- 
looking  face  and  her  brown  fur  neck-piece. 

"Hate  it,"  she  said,  screwing  up  her  small  nose. 

"Hate  what?" 

"Caesar!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing  at  him.  "Papa  says 
Latin  isn't  a  particle  of  use.  Do  you  think  it  helps  one? 
Well,  I've  got  to  be  going,  Mr.  Glinden,"  the  young  miss 
rattled  on. 

Her  mode  of  address  gave  him  a  satisfying  feeling  of 
importance. 

"It's  nearly  dark,"  he  replied.  "I'll  walk  your  way 
with  you." 

"A  bear  might  grab  me,"  she  returned  melodiously. 

Fielding  hurried  to  the  dressing  room  for  his  coat  and 
cap.  It  seemed  the  greatest  moment  of  his  life.  The 
school  had  suddenly  grown  important  to  him.  The  smell 
of  books  and  blackboards  and  chalk-dust,  the  faint  odor 
of  alcohol  from  the  biological  laboratory  and  of  chlorine 
from  the  chemical  laboratory,  became  romantic.  Draw- 
ing on  his  coat,  he  went  in  search  of  Adelaide,  afraid  that 
she  had  run  away  and  left  him,  but  found  her  waiting 
on  the  lower  landing. 

They  started  up  Potomac  Avenue,  Fielding  tingling 
with  pleasure  as  he  scanned  the  gratifying,  slender  form 
at  his  side. 

"You  seem  good  at  drawing,"  he  remarked  lamely. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     But  I  love  it." 

Every  remark  of  Adelaide's  traversed  Fielding  like 
notes  of  music.  Her  voice  had  always  impressed  him  in 
class.  To  hear  it  now,  talking  only  to  him,  seemed  almost 
incredible.  He  learned  that  her  father  was  a  building 
contractor;  he  had  formerly  been  in  politics;  had  held 
some  county  office.  One  of  her  brothers  was  an  interne 
at  the  Cook  County  Hospital. 

"My  grandfather  was  a  doctor,"  said  Fielding,  grasp- 
ing the  opportunity  to  strengthen  the  structure  of  their 
friendship. 


GOLD    SHOD  45 

"I  s'pose  you're  going  to  study  medicine,"  she  returned. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"You're  always  so  quiet.  You  seem  so  kinda  solemn, 
like  a  doctor." 

They  had  reached  her  home  on  North  Avenue,  a  sub- 
stantial frame  house,  with  an  ample  yard  surrounded  by 
an  iron  fence. 

"Thanks  for  coming  out  of  your  way.  Good  night," 
she  said. 

"Good  night,"  he  replied,  extending  his  hand. 

Adelaide  drew  her  hand  from  her  muff,  and  offered  it. 
Then  she  opened  the  gate  and  ran  to  the  house.  He 
stood  watching  her  figure  recede  through  the  snowy  dusk, 
arrested  by  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  him. 
The  last  twenty  minutes  had  altered  his  whole  relation 
to  the  world.  A  marvelous  tranquillity  filled  him;  the 
vague  loneliness  of  previous  days  was  gone;  his  mood 
was  luminous. 

He  sat  staring  at  her  the  next  day  in  class,  preparing 
phrases  to  address  to  her,  carrying  on  courtly  imaginary 
conversations.  He  was  amazed  that  in  the  many  hours 
he  had  spent  in  the  same  class-room  with  her,  he  had 
never  fully  perceived  her  beauty.  He  fancied  himself 
seated  at  the  same  desk  with  her,  reading  Latin  from  the 
same  book.  His  tongue  ran  silently  over  the  syllables  of 
her  name. 

Out  of  doors  a  steady  snow  was  falling,  and  whisperers 
in  the  rear  of  the  room  began  arranging  a  sleighing  party. 
When  the  news  reached  Fielding,  Le  was  seized  with  alarm 
lest  some  one  else  should  ask  Adelaide  before  he  could.  A 
sense  of  enterprise  and  daring  entered  him.  He  tore  a 
slip  of  paper  from  the  fly-leaf  of  his  text-book  and  wrote 
her  a  note:  "There's  going  to  be  a  sleighing  party  to- 
night. Will  you  go  with  me?" 

He  attracted  her  attention  cautiously,  and  passed  her 
the  note. 

"Impossible,"  was  her  reply.  "Some  people  are  visit- 
ing us." 


46  GOLD    SHOD 

As  Fielding's  eyes  ran  over  her  delicate,  even  handwrit- 
ing, the  pang  caused  by  her  refusal  was  softened  by  his 
possession  of  this  fragment  of  her  writing.  He  had 
something  that  was  hers.  He  folded  the  treasured  slip 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  As  he  did  so,  a  disturbing 
suspicion  occurred  to  him.  Perhaps  Adelaide  meant  to 
go  to  the  party  with  some  one  else. 

"Glinden,"  said  the  instructor.  "If  you  and  Miss  Bain 
are  through  writing  notes  to  each  other,  you  may 
translate." 

With  a  flush  of  defiant  anger,  Fielding  rose.  He  waited 
for  the  giggle  of  the  class  to  subside  before  starting  to 
recite.  Mingled  with  his  anger  was  a  feeling  of  pride,  to 
have  had  Adelaide's  name  and  his  mentioned  together.  It 
seemed  to  have  drawn  them  closer  together.  He  felt  a 
victorious  sense  of  compact  with  her. 

Fielding  trudged  home  through  the  deepening  snow 
that  evening,  proceeding  by  way  of  Adelaide's  home.  It 
seemed  a  lifetime  since  the  day  before  when  they  had 
come  this  way  together.  Currents  of  longing  drew  him 
on.  His  tender  gaze  rested  upon  the  lamp-lit  window- 
panes  and  the  little  drifts  of  snow  upon  their  sills.  He 
imagined  himself  going  to  the  door,  ringing,  and  waiting 
for  her  to  appear. 

"H'lo,  Field!"  called  some  one.  "What's  the  matter? 
You  lost?" 

"No,  I'm  going  to  a  store,"  lied  Fielding,  recognizing 
a  gymnasium  acquaintance 

He  stood  musing  that  night  at  home  before  the  crusted 
diamonds  of  the  frost  that  caked  the  window.  The  wind 
moaned  through  the  trees  of  Wicker  Park.  He  could 
hear  the  rattle  of  sleighbells.  He  was  brooding  over  his 
lost  opportunity  to  be  with  Adelaide  this  evening  but 
it  gave  him  a  feeling  of  peculiar  satisfaction  to  reflect  that 
he  was  in  love. 

That  Saturday  he  skated  all  afternoon  on  the  pond  in 
Humboldt  Park,  hunting  among  the  flaming  cheeks  and 
streaming  scarves  of  the  skaters  for  a  glimpse  of  Adelaide, 


GOLD    SHOD  47 

but  vainly.  He  had  been  reading  Tlie  First  Violin,  and 
pretended  that  he  was  skating  on  German  lagoons  amid 
students  and  musicians. 

He  had  no  opportunity  to  speak  to  Adelaide  again 
until  the  following  week.  He  found  her  one  afternoon  in  a 
secluded  corner  of  the  library  at  school. 

"Oh,  hello,"  she  said,  seeing  him.  "That  was  a  funny 
thing  for  you  to  do,"  she  added  reproachfully. 

"What  was?" 

"Writing  me  that  note." 

"The  prof,  had  no  business  saying  what  he  did." 

"He's  the  freshest  thing,"  admitted  Adelaide. 

"Did  you  mind?"  asked  Fielding. 

"Yes.     Didn't  you?" 

"No.    I  don't  give  a  care  who  knows." 

Fielding  looked  at  the  girl  beside  him  and  all  at  once 
Adelaide  seemed  to  him  marvelous  and  irresistible.  His 
eyes  fed  upon  her  straight,  boyish  figure.  Her  dress  was 
the  hue  of  wine,  and  like  wine  it  went  to  his  head.  Pre- 
tending to  be  looking  at  the  books  in  the  case,  he  drew 
nearer.  Then  his  hand  closed  over  hers. 

The  girl's  slim  face  grew  scarlet.  She  did  not  know 
whether  to  say  "This  is  so  sudden,"  or  "How  dare  you?" 
Her  lips  were  about  to  speak,  but  she  was  at  a  loss  what 
to  say.  Taking  her  silence  for  consent,  Fielding  directed 
an  adoring  look  at  her  eyes. 

"Some  of  the  girls  are  waiting  for  me.  Good  night," 
Adelaide  now  managed  to  say. 

As  Fielding  left  the  building,  the  fantastic  yell  of  the 
Silent  "M"  reached  his  ears.  But  he  felt  no  impulse  to 
take  part  in  the  initiation.  Thoughts  of  Adelaide  crowded 
all  other  interests  out  of  his  mind.  Fragments  of  songs 
rose  to  his  lips  in  nervous  whistling.  The  snowy  side- 
walks, the  wooden  houses,  the  roofs,  the  faces  at  the 
windows,  the  whole  world  looked  different.  He  walked 
enveloped  in  a  nimbus  of  brightness.  He  felt  a  new 
sense  of  direction,  of  quiet  strength,  felt  able  to  achieve 
high  deeds.  He  felt  fathoms  above  the  sweaty  effort  of 


48  GOLD   SHOD 

the  gymnasium.  All  of  that  seemed  coarse  and  intolerable. 
The  initiation  seemed  idiotic.  He  saw  the  crests  and  shin- 
ing summits  of  a  different  world. 

That  night,  when  he  had  put  his  books  away,  he  went 
to  the  basement  to  look  after  the  furnace.  The  smells  of 
coal  dust,  ashes,  kindling  wood,  and  soaking  wash  crowded 
pungently  to  his  nostrils — realistic  invaders  of  the  ro- 
mance that  occupied  him.  He  paused  in  the  kitchen  for  a 
glance  at  the  range.  He  stood  staring  into  the  bed  of 
ruddy  coals,  thinking  of  Adelaide.  He  spoke  her  name. 
He  was  filled  with  a  delicious  fever. 

He  set  out  for  school  the  next  morning,  buoyant  with 
hope.  Adelaide  passed  him  in  the  hall  and  ignored  him. 

Later  in  the  morning,  one  of  Adelaide's  friends  handed 
Fielding  a  sealed  envelope.  He  opened  it  and  found  this 
note  from  Adelaide: 

"Mr.  Glinden:  It  was  very  inconsiderate  of  you  to 
take  that  liberty  with  me  yesterday.  I  was  very  much 
surprised  and  offended.  Adelaide  Bain." 

Fielding  was  crushed  beneath  a  load  of  humiliation. 
He  imagined  that  all  the  girls  of  the  school  were  making 
fun  of  him  behind  his  back.  He  contemplated  suicide. 
He  swore  he  would  never  look  at  another  girl.  On  lonely 
rambles  through  the  park,  he  grieved  over  the  loss  of 
Adelaide ;  he  composed  melancholy  verses ;  he  wept ;  he 
exalted  her  into  an  unattainable  ideal. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  college,  Fielding  nibbled  aimlessly  among  books 
and  at  life.  Unlike  the  roaring  young  leaders  in 
sports  and  other  campus  activities,  he  was  doing  nothing 
to  make  his  presence  especially  felt.  He  went  his  way, 
apathetic  and  negative.  As  yet  nothing  had  happened  to 
rouse  him. 

He  was  somewhat  above  medium  height,  erect,  and  dis- 
tinguished by  an  air  of  remoteness  that  kept  most  of  his 
fellows  at  a  distance.  His  gray  eyes  were  meditative 
rather  than  alert;  they  were  set  well  apart;  there  was 
weight  to  his  eye-brows.  His  dark-hued  skin  was  clear; 
his  hair  of  darkish  brown  was  worn  short  and  lacked  the 
discipline  of  careful  parting.  His  solid  nose  seemed  a 
trifle  off-center.  The  expression  of  his  rather  wide  mouth 
was  grave;  it  might  variously  have  connoted  determina- 
tion, or  restraint,  or  perhaps  a  non-commital  waiting 
attitude  toward  the  world — one  could  hardly  have  been 
sure. 

"Quiet  cuss,  but  our  kind,"  was  the  judgment  of  his 
snobbish  chapter  house. 

The  incident  with  Adelaide  had  imbedded  a  deeper 
strain  of  shyness  in  Fielding,  and  had  left  an  undercurrent 
of  moodiness.  Other  youths  might  have  laughed  it  off 
and  forgotten  it ;  but  it  had  greatly  dampened  his  social 
instincts,  making  him  even  more  sensitive  than  he  had 
been  as  a  young  boy.  These  repressions  found  their  fore- 
most outlet  in  a  renewed  impulse  for  expression  in  writ- 
ing, and  Fielding  applied  himself  at  times  with  passion 
to  the  composition  of  themes.  He  would  hunt  with  fervor 
for  the  words  and  phrases  that  recorded  his  impressions 
of  the  campus  at  dusk,  the  gray  buildings  on  a  wintry 

49 


50  GOLD    SHOD 

day,  the  benches  and  trees,  the  football  bleachers  blossom- 
ing with  maize  and  blue. 

But  the  pleasure  of  even  this  pursuit  was  mitigated  by 
his  dislike  for  his  instructor  in  English,  a  young  dean, 
supercilious,  a  dilettant,  a  poseur,  who  was  constantly 
endeavoring  to  break  into  print  in  the  local  newspapers 
with  flippant  remarks  in  class.  He  had  no  understanding 
of  Fielding's  longing  to  express  himself,  no  ability  to 
stimulate  a  student's  labors,  no  gift  to  discover  talent. 

There  were  times  when  Fielding  considered  it  useless 
to  remain  in  college.  He  felt  lost  and  out  of  place;  his 
fraternity  life  was  meaningless ;  he  had  made  no  friends ; 
had  discovered  neither  direction  nor  objective.  Novels 
and  poetry  occupied  much  of  his  time,  but  tantalized  him 
with  his  own  inactivity.  His  craving  to  write  was  accom- 
panied by  no  knowledge  of  what  to  say ;  his  inner  world 
was  still  vague  and  formless. 

Toward  the  close  of  his  freshman  year,  Fielding  sud- 
denly discovered  that  he  was  in  love  with  a  Miss  Harring- 
ton, one  of  the  co-eds.  The  mild  spring  air  filled  him  with 
lassitude  and  melancholy;  he  wandered  about  the  campus 
and  about  town  uneasily.  One  afternoon  he  met  Miss 
Harrington  by  accident  on  the  campus  and  began  to 
realize  what  ailed  him.  There  was  a  singular  vitality 
about  her,  a  robust  vigor  that  had  previously  never  at- 
tracted him  in  girls.  Her  coloring  was  deep;  her  hair 
gold ;  her  eyes  a  cloudy  brown.  As  he  walked  at  her  side, 
all  the  suppressed  romanticism  in  him  pressed  forward. 
Her  hands,  her  teeth,  the  swing  of  her  arm — all  these 
had  a  rousing  effect  on  him.  Her  laughter  moved  through 
him  like  a  swallow  of  strong  drink. 

"You  are  by  all  odds  the  most  charming  sight  on  the 
campus.  Where  are  you  bound  for?"  he  asked. 

"No  place.  It's  a  shame  to  stay  indoors  on  a  day  like 
this.  I  hate  to  go  back  to  the  dorm." 

"I  have  no  intention  of  letting  you.  Consider  yourself 
my  captive." 


GOLD   SHOD  51 

The  hour  that  followed  was  altogether  the  happiest 
Fielding  had  spent  on  the  campus.  New  color  streamed 
into  his  thoughtful  face.  His  eyes,  dull  with  habitual 
loneliness,  borrowed  animation  from  the  brilliant  eyes 
of  his  companion,  and  kindled  with  the  glow  of  anxious 
desire.  As  they  talked  of  college  trivialities,  he  felt  a 
renewal  of  buried  impulses.  A  new  ardor  for  life  seized 
him.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  be  seen  with  this  girl ;  it  re- 
vived something  of  the  same  defiant  joy  he  had  felt  at 
high  school  when  the  bantering  instructor  had  spoken  of 
his  exchange  of  notes  with  Adelaide. 

"We're  having  a  dance  at  the  chapter  house  Friday 
night,"  he  said  to  Miss  Harrington.  "I  wish  you'd  come." 

"Friday?  Let  me  see.  I  have  something  else  on  for 
Friday,  but  I'd  a  lot  rather  dance." 

"Good.    Then  I'll  call  for  you  at  eight." 

The  intervening  days  found  him  occupied  by  a  pleas- 
ing agitation.  He  looked  back  over  his  freshman  year  as 
upon  a  sandy  waste;  but  now,  all  at  once,  life  had  be- 
come fertile.  A  marvelous  fragrance  seemed  to  encircle 
him  in  enchanting  currents. 

When  he  called  for  Miss  Harrington  on  the  night  of 
the  party,  he  found  her  looking  exquisite.  The  red  roses 
he  had  sent  her  seemed  sprung  from  the  rich  young  soil 
of  her  body.  He  walked  proudly  with  her  through  the 
emerald  gloaming. 

"Nice  work,  Glinden ;  you're  a  good  picker,"  remarked 
one  of  the  fraternity  men. 

"She's  a  good  sort,"  replied  Fielding. 

"Didn't  know  you  and  she  were  friends.  Don't  hog 
her  up,  old  man.  Put  me  down  for  a  dance." 

The  unforgettable  dancing  began.  Fielding,  set  on  fire 
by  the  nearness  of  this  girl,  experienced  the  exultation 
that  rarely  occurs  after  the  sudden  loves  of  one's  youth. 
The  scherzo  of  her  feet,  the  rustle  and  glisten  of  her  gown, 
the  contact  with  her  body  obediently  following  his  leading, 
the  warm  dampness  of  her  hand,  saturated  his  nerves. 

"We  should  have  danced  together  long  ago,"  he  said. 


52  GOLD   SHOD 

"I  love  it." 

"I  love  more  than  it,"  he  told  her  impulsively. 

She  gave  a  reckless  little  laugh. 

"Am  I  holding  you  too  close?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

They  danced  on. 

"Now  you  are,"  she  said. 

When  thrown  with  others,  Fielding  felt  no  interest, 
endeavoring  to  imagine  himself  still  dancing  with  her 
whenever  the  build  of  his  partners  made  the  illusion 
possible. 

"Enjoying  yourself?'*  he  asked  when  they  were  again 
together. 

"Immensely." 

"I  haven't  been,"  he  complained. 

"Why  not?" 

"You  ought  to  know." 

"I'm  the  worst  guesser,"  she  replied,  intoxicating  him 
with  her  waltzing. 

"They  are  stealing  too  many  of  my  dances." 

"You've  kept  most  of  them." 

"I  wish  I'd  kept  them  all."  Fielding  led  her  to  the 
punch-bowl.  His  eyes  clung  to  her  moist  lips  as  she 
sipped  the  f rappee.  Then  he  took  her  out  into  the  yard. 

"I  don't  even  know  your  first  name,"  he  began. 

"Blanche.     But  don't  call  me  that." 

"I  can  think  it." 

The  orchestra  again  began  with  a  flourish,  and  another 
youth  appeared.  "Cheaters !  My  dance.  Come  on,  Miss 
Harrington,"  he  commanded,  taking  her  away. 

After  Fielding's  next  dance  with  her,  he  once  more  took 
her  out  of  doors  for  a  breath  of  air.  They  were  thirty 
yards  away  from  the  house  when  the  music  was  resumed. 

"Don't  go  in,"  he  begged,  glancing  at  his  dance- 
program,  lit  by  the  moon.  "Your  next  partner  can't 
dance.  Let's  ditch  it.  Please!  There's  something  I've 
got  to  tell  you.  Blanche,  I'm  crazy  about  you.  Don't 
go.  You  might  as  well  know  that  I  love  you." 


GOLD    SHOD  53 

"Why  did  you  have  to  spoil  everything?"  asked  Miss 
Harrington,  drawing  back. 

"You're  marvelous,"  he  exclaimed,  and  kissed  her. 

"Please  don't  be  foolish.  I  thought  I  could  trust  you. 
Don't  do  that  again.  I  wouldn't  have  had  that  happen 
for  anything." 

"Don't  you  like  me  at  all?" 

"Yes,  of  course.     But  not  that  way." 

A  woman's  voice  was  calling:  "Miss  Harrington, 
dear!  What  on  earth  are  you  people  doing  out  there?" 
One  of  the  chaperons  was  coming  toward  them. 

"Mr.  Glinden,  I'm  surprised,"  she  said,  recognizing 
Fielding.  "Come  into  the  house  at  once,  both  of  you." 

When  the  dancing  was  over,  Fielding  found  it  impossible 
to  detach  Miss  Harrington  from  the  crowd  returning  to 
the  women's  dormitories.  She  entered  the  door  after  a 
cool  "good  night,"  and  was  gone. 

A  few  days  later,  Wayland  Emmett,  an  upper  classman, 
said  to  Fielding: 

"Miss  Harrington  seems  to  be  doing  some  tall 
blabbing." 

"What  about?" 

"About  your  kissing  her  the  other  night  and  being 
called  for  it  by  that  damn  chaperone.  I  thought  you 
ought  to  know.  Darn  pretty  girl,  and  I  don't  blame  you 
a  bit.  Too  bad  she's  doing  all  this  talking." 

Wayland  Emmett's  brief  announcement  left  Fielding 
disgusted  with  himself  and  disappointed  with  Miss  Har- 
rington. 

"Girls  make  me  sick,"  he  answered. 

This  fleeting  interest  in  campus  life  having  vanished, 
Fielding  lapsed  into  his  former  state  of  apathy  and 
detachment. 

Early  in  his  second  year  he  went  to  the  dean  for  per- 
mission to  withdraw  from  a  course  in  Livy. 

"What  for?"  demanded  the  dean,  blinking  at  Fielding 
with  weak  eyes. 


54  GOLD    SHOD 

"I  don't  like  it." 

"That's  no  excuse." 

"I  can't  stand  the  instructor." 

"Why  not?     He's  an  able  man." 

"He's  dead — like  the  language,"  replied  Fielding. 

"What  do  you  want,  a  dancing  dervish  to  teach  you 
Latin?" 

"Might  be  an  improvement." 

"What  the  devil  did  you  come  to  college  for?  May  I 
ask?"  inquired  the  dean,  lighting  a  cigarette  with  a 
flourish. 

"I  often  wonder." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  attended  one  of  my  courses  in 
English,  didn't  you,  Glidden?" 

"Glinden,"  corrected  Fielding. 

"Did  I  pass  you?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"That  was  a  mistake.  You  should  have  been  con- 
ditioned. You  didn't  do  any  work." 

"Is  that  so?    Well,  neither  did  you,"  said  Fielding. 

"That  retort  will  cost  you  something,  young  man!" 
exclaimed  the  dean  angrily.  "You  are  suspended  for  the 
balance  of  the  year." 

Fielding  left  the  campus  without  regrets,  returned  to 
Chicago,  and  recounted  the  episode  to  his  mother. 

"It  was  bound  to  happen  sooner  or  later,"  he  explained. 
"It  suits  me.  I'm  done  with  college." 

"It's  an  awful  start  for  you  to  make  in  life,"  complained 
his  mother.  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Get  a  job  of  some  sort,"  said  Fielding  vaguely. 

Mrs.  Glinden's  hopes  revived.  After  all,  perhaps  it 
was  for  the  best.  The  old  ambition  to  see  Fielding  sub- 
stantially placed  in  business  renewed  itself. 

Fielding's  serious  personality  and  air  of  breeding 
readily  opened  business  doors  to  him.  His  first  work  was 
for  the  publisher  of  a  magazine  of  salesmanship.  It 
seethed  with  so-called  ginger-talks ;  the  proprietor  was  a 


GOLD    SHOD  55 

glib  phrase-maker,  a  wholesale  dealer  in  platitudes.  Sales 
managers  pasted  his  sayings  on  their  walls  and  baa'ed 
the  stuff  in  unison.  He  was  the  author  of  numerous 
books  on  business,  and  it  was  his  custom,  once  an  idea 
presented  itself,  to  tramp  the  floor  of  his  office  for  sixteen 
or  eighteen  hours  at  a  stretch  and  dictate  to  relays  of 
stenographers.  Before  writing  and  publishing  a  book, 
he  sent  "fliers'*  to  a  selected  mailing-list;  these  announce- 
ments flashed  a  list  of  subjects  the  book  would  contain. 
The  person  addressed  was  asked  to  check  the  ones  he 
was  interested  in,  and  to  sign  a  coupon  ordering  the  book 
when  ready.  Upon  receipt  of  enough  orders  to  warrant 
publication,  the  crafty  author  would  swiftly  lick  the  text 
into  shape,  writing  only  chapters  on  the  subjects  indi- 
cated by  the  subscribers. 

"Most  publishers  are  old  women,"  he  told  Fielding. 
"They  don't  know  the  first  principles  of  the  business. 
They  print  up  a  lot  of  truck  and  then  try  to  find  the 
people  who  want  to  read  it.  It's  like  making  a  suit  of 
clothes  according  to  definite  measurements,  and  then 
trying  to  find  someone  it  will  fit.  I  get  my  dimensions 
first  and  then  cut  my  cloth  accordingly.  Never  write  a 
book  before  I  shoot  out  a  flier.  Salesmanship  first  and 
production  later." 

Fielding  viewed  his  employer  without  admiration.  So 
this  was  what  an  author  looked  like?  Fielding  had  held 
books  in  peculiar  respect,  had  stood  in  awe  of  their 
authors.  It  grew  irritating  to  him  to  be  engaged  in  the 
promotion  of  this  "literature."  He  felt  like  a  cheap 
conspirator. 

"Ever  sell  goods  behind  a  counter?"  demanded  his  em- 
ployer briskly  one  day. 

"No." 

"That's  too  bad.  Nothing  like  a  job  behind  a  counter 
to  knock  practical  sense  into  a  man.  Ever  do  any  house- 
to-house  canvassing?" 

"No,"  replied  Fielding  with  a  shudder. 

The  other  shook  his  head  painfully.     "I'm  going  to 


56  GOLD   SHOD 

chase  you  out  of  here  one  of  these  days,  and  have  you 
peddle  some  books.  Greatest  thing  in  the  world  for 
you,"  he  said. 

But  before  he  could  carry  out  this  threat,  some  one 
came  along  and  bought  the  business  at  a  price  that  enabled 
the  seller  to  abandon  his  labors  long  enough  to  go  to  New 
York  and  drink  himself  to  death. 

In  Fielding's  career,  job  now  followed  job;  none  were 
of  consequence;  none  took  hold  of  his  interest  or  snapped 
a  switch  in  him  that  might  have  sent  the  current  of 
Chicago  streaming  through  him.  The  roar  of  the  Loop 
pounded  at  him,  but  he  did  not  respond.  He  was  sensi- 
tive only  to  its  overtones,  which  came  to  him  in  disturbing 
cadences.  The  Chicago  of  warehouses,  of  distribution,  of 
traction,  of  building  construction,  of  railroads,  of  ship- 
ping and  of  trucking,  of  banking  and  finance,  did  not  in- 
terest him.  But  names  of  theaters,  titles  of  plays,  and 
names  of  players  laid  enticing  hands  upon  him.  Orchestra 
Hall  gave  him  a  sense  of  seductive  kinship.  The  public 
library,  the  Art  Institute,  the  musical  instrument  concern 
in  Wabash  Avenue,  the  book-shops  all  seemed  to  follow 
him  with  their  eyes  when  he  passed,  disturbing  him  with 
vague  reproaches. 

He  liked  to  drop  into  a  chair  in  the  lobby  of  one  of 
the  large  hotels,  watch  the  changing  pictures  of  people, 
and  listen  to  bits  of  conversation.  Here  his  roving  eyes 
would  feed  upon  attractive  women  who  lit  subtle  fires  in 
him,  leaving  beds  of  coal  that  warmed  him  strangely. 
He  perceived  men  making  the  acquaintance  of  women 
obviously  strangers  to  them,  and  pictured  himself  making 
similar  approaches.  He  compared  different  women,  spec- 
ulating as  to  whether  they  were  "straight,"  wondering 
how  they  would  react  to  advances.  The  perfumed  lob- 
bies, with  their  divans  of  satin  and  velour,  brocades,  chairs 
and  hangings  of  gold,  their  music  and  silk  lampshades, 
their  men  and  women  of  ease  and  fashion,  made  distracting 
overtures  to  his  imagination. 

One  evening  an  attractive  girl  caught  his  eye,  as  he 


GOLD   SHOD  57 

walked  along  Michigan  Boulevard.  He  followed  her  for  a 
block,  drawn  by  the  animalism  in  her  gait,  the  rhythm  of 
her  carriage.  Her  narrow  shoulders  and  hips  were  well- 
tailored  ;  her  hands  were  gloved  in  suede.  Drawing  nearer, 
he  noticed  the  deep  coloring  of  her  skin.  He  fastened  his 
eyes  upon  her,  interested  mightily. 

"Hello,  kid,"  she  said,  looking  at  him. 

"Hello." 

"What's  your  hurry?" 

"I'm  in  no  hurry." 

"Where  you  goin'?"  she  asked. 

"No  place  in  particular,"  he  said,  regarding  her  curi- 
ously. Her  face  now  seemed  commoner;  her  illiteracy 
annoyed  him. 

"Come  on,  kid.  Buy  me  a  drink,"  she  urged,  taking  his 
arm. 

"Thirsty  ?    Where  do  you  want  to  go  ?"  he  asked. 

"Weber's  on  Wabash  Avenoo." 

"That's  no  good,"  he  replied,  feeling  ridiculous  with 
this  street-walker  dangling  from  his  arm. 

"Where  you  wanta  go,  sweetheart?" 

"No  place." 

"Ah,  come  on." 

"Not  to-night,"  he  said,  indifferent  to  her  charms. 

"What's  the  matter?     Don't  you  like  me?" 

"Oh,  you're  all  right,"  he  replied  without  enthusiasm. 

"I'll  show  you  a  good  time.    Honest  I  will." 

Fielding  shook  his  head. 

"Ain't  I  purty  enough  fer  you?" 

"You're  pretty  enough,  but  you  talk  too  much." 

"Say,  what's  the  matter?  Sore  because  I  gave  you  the 
high-sign?  I'm  considered  a  good-looker,  take  it  from 
me." 

"It  isn't  the  way  you  look.     It's  the  way  you  talk." 

"Gee,  but  you're  a  funny  guy.  Gimme  a  quarter  fer 
luck." 

Fielding  handed  her  a  coin,  and  started  up  the  stairs 
of  the  Adams  Street  elevated  station.  Fairly  attractive, 


58  GOLD   SHOD 

but  as  ignorant  as  a  cow,  he  reflected.  Had  she  been  less 
common,  he  might  gladly  have  gone  with  her  to  Weber's. 
On  occasional  visits  to  Kohl  &  Middleton's  dime 
museum,  Fielding  witnessed  the  performance  of  a  dancer 
known  as  "Little  Egypt,"  an.  exponent  of  the  "hootchy- 
coochy."  He  watched  this  dark  little  creature  with  fever- 
ish amazement.  The  contortions  of  the  supple  and 
comely  little  alley-rat  streamed  through  these  audiences 
of  men  and  sent  many  of  them  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  harlots 
of  Custom  House  Place. 

To  the  shelves  of  the  tall  walnut  bookcases  that  shel- 
tered what  was  left  of  his  father's  library,  Fielding 
turned  often  as  to  a  refuge  during  this  period  of  uncer- 
tainty and  of  groping.  In  these  books  Fielding  dis- 
covered his  father,  something  of  the  dreams  that  must 
have  stirred  in  him  as  he  sat  at  his  unhappy  desk  in  the 
factory,  something  of  the  world  of  imagined  glamour  in 
which  he  moved,  of  the  passions  that  tugged  at  that  frame 
and  flesh  which  had  never  known  the  strength  to  follow. 

Fielding's  father  was  not  the  kind  of  reader  to  race 
with  fleet  eyes  through  a  book,  impatient  to  seize  upon  the 
story.  These  volumes  bore  subtle  evidence  of  having  been 
read  with  lingering  care,  searching  for  passages  peculiarly 
for  him.  Nor  was  he  the  kind  of  reader  who  boldly  sets 
his  penciled  marks  against  the  passages  for  which  he 
cares  and  reveals  himself  in  a  loud  confessional. 

Fielding  found  no  such  revelations  of  his  father. 
But  he  did  discover  faint  dots  set  here  and  there  in  the 
margins,  so  lightly  that  hardly  a  reader  would  have 
noticed  them — the  cautious,  unobtrusive  land-marks  and 
mood-marks  of  the  realms  in  which  Fielding's  father  had 
moved. 

The  discovery  gave  Fielding  a  start  of  pleasure.  In 
volume  after  volume  he  explored  the  faint  little  markings ; 
they  gave  him  the  first  real  picture  of  his  father,  gave  it 
character  and  reality.  These  dots  in  the  margins  of  old 
books  charted  and  plotted  a  life  now  grown  suddenly 


GOLD    SHOD  59 

more  important  and  more  dear  to  him.  He  read  on  with 
all  the  fascination  of  finding  an  amazing  story  within 
other  stories,  a  continuous  unfolding. 

It  was  thus  that  Fielding  came  to  love  the  rich  mel- 
ancholy and  heraldic  splendor  of  IvanJwe.  His  quest  to 
know  more  about  his  father  led  him  into  Vanity  Fair  and 
Daniel  Deronda,  through  Dumas  and  Balzac  and  the 
brooding  Turgenev. 

Reading  these  books,  Fielding  came  to  view  his  father 
with  new  interest,  new  respect,  new  nearness  and  devotion. 
The  father's  character  emerged  from  distant  obscurity 
into  vividness  and  vitality.  His  love  of  color  and  ex- 
quisite wording  dawned  and  grew  upon  the  son,  stealing 
upon  him  out  of  the  past  like  radiant  visitors  to  his  world 
of  business  routine.  He  grew  more  and  more  discontented 
with  himself.  He  thought  there  must  be  something  more 
in  life  for  him.  At  times,  he  went  to  his  work  with  a  sense 
of  guilt,  feeling  that  he  was  betraying  the  memory  of  his 
father  and  was  false  to  currents  that  ran  through  Anton. 

Floods  of  creative  desire  went  through  him  at  times, 
but  failing  to  find  a  channel,  merely  left  him  limp.  He 
felt  an  impulse  to  enroll  for  evening  studies  at  the  Art 
Institute,  but  realized  that  he  was  wholly  without  talent 
for  drawing.  Yet  he  continued  to  gaze  at  the  classic 
structure  which  rose  against  the  mists  of  Lake  Michigan 
with  a  sense  of  reverence,  as  if  it  were  some  temple  to 
gods  which  he  ought  to  serve  had  he  only  known  how  to 
draw  nearer  to  them. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  a  room  of  almost  countless  desks  in  the  general  offices 
of  a  shoe  manufacturing  concern  in  Randolph  Street 
sat  Fielding  laboring  at  an  article  for  the  house  organ. 
It  was  dreary  work.  He  had  now  been  at  it,  grinding  out 
copy  for  Foot-Notes,  for  six  months. 

Nearby  a  group  of  men  in  the  sales  department  listened 
to  one  of  their  number,  a  recent  addition  to  the  advertis- 
ing staff,  telling  a  story.  The  speaker  had  a  breezy  air 
and  the  accent  of  Georgia.  He  looked  like  an  actor,  told 
a  story  with  feverish  animation;  his  pictorial  profanity 
had  won  him  the  name  of  the  Blasphemer. 

There  was  a  gale  of  laughter  at  the  end  of  his  yarn, 
and  he  started  back  to  his  desk  with  a  swinging  gait. 

"I  am  braying  again  to  all  and  sundry,"  he  said  to 
Fielding.  "You  do  well  to  stick  to  your  labors.  Your 
industry  puts  me  to  shame.  Keep  on,  and  you  will  attain 
the  presidency  of  this  worthy  house.'* 

"God  forbid,"  replied  Fielding. 

"What?"  demanded  the  other.  "You  scoff  at  com- 
mercial preferment?'* 

"I  do." 

"Your  words  are  manna  to  mine  ears.  And  yet  you 
write  with  a  swing  and  dash  that  makes  the  damned  sheet 
glisten.  Since  when  this  indifference  toward  shoemaking?" 

"Ever  since  I  hired  out  here." 

"Good!  We  have  much  in  common.  Will  you  dine 
with  me  to-night  ?" 

"Gladly." 

"We  will  employ  well-chosen  curses  wherewith  to  curse 
our  employers." 

They  went  that  evening  to  an  Italian  eating-house  on 

60 


GOLD   SHOD  61 

the  South  Side.  The  Blasphemer  was  greeted  familiarly 
by  the  signora  in  charge.  The  table  d'hote  dinner  was 
excellent ;  the  Chianti  evoked  confidences. 

"Why  do  you  stick  on  the  job?"  demanded  Fielding. 

"Because  I'm  a  blithering  weakling.  I  am  pounding 
myself  to  pieces  ballyhooing  the  trade-message  of  a  crowd 
of  fat-heads.  So  are  you." 

"Yes,"  replied  Fielding  unhappily. 

"The  drivel  known  as  advertising  is  for  those  to  write 
who  have  nothing  to  say  themselves,"  pursued  the  Blas- 
phemer with  a  fluent  gesture.  "It's  a  wonder  to  me  that  a 
pious  land  like  this  should  stand  for  advertising  at  all. 
Advertising  is  a  fundamental  violation  of  the  command- 
ment 'Thou  shalt  not  covet.* ' 

Fielding's  amiable  companion  rambled  on,  sneering  at 
the  concern  which  employed  them,  lampooning  their  office 
associates,  ridiculing  their  work.  Fielding  was  drawn  by 
the  other's  vivacious  charm,  by  his  pictorial  eloquence. 

"There  are  more  pompous  asses  in  that  organization," 
observed  Fielding.  "It's  a  relief  to  hear  them  called  by 
their  right  names." 

They  left  the  Italian  cafe  and  wandered  down  Wabash 
Avenue  toward  Twenty-second  Street.  Fielding  was  fas- 
cinated by  the  warmth  of  his  companion's  sophomoric 
personality. 

They  were  strolling,  arm  in  arm,  through  Chicago's 
tenderloin.  A  group  of  roysterers,  full  of  cheap  wit  and 
expensive  wine,  swayed  past.  Street-walkers  patrolled 
their  beats,  endeavoring  to  look  seductive.  A  hag  sat 
shivering  in  a  doorway.  A  bareheaded  woman  clad  in  a 
green  wrapper  came  out  of  a  lunchroom  carrying  a  bucket 
of  steaming  coffee.  From  a  little  red  doorway  stepped  a 
boy;  he  was  filled  with  a  hot  glow  after  his  first  fearful 
embrace. 

"Come  again,  sweetheart,"  said  a  woman  to  him  softly 
from  the  doorway. 

"The  great  sexual  unrest,"  remarked  the  Blasphemer. 


62  GOLD   SHOD 

"What  is  your  pleasure?  Shall  I  lead  you  to  a  choice 
and  carefully-selected  bunch  of  harlots?  Or  do  you 
prefer  to  talk?" 

"I  much  prefer  to  talk,"  answered  Fielding. 

"Thank  you.  Lust  has  its  place  in  the  scheme  of  life. 
There  are  times  when  only  a  woman  will  suffice.  But  de- 
liver me  from  the  constant  quest  of  lingerie.  It  makes  me 
sick,"  said  the  Blasphemer,  leading  the  way  into  a  bar- 
room. "Two  tankards  of  ale,"  he  ordered. 

At  one  o'clock  the  Blasphemer  was  reciting  Kipling's 
Sestina  of  the  Tramp  Royal,  declaiming  the  lines  with  a 
love  and  understanding. 

At  one-thirty,  Fielding  was  telling  the  Blasphemer  of 
his  aspirations. 

It  was  a  nocturne  of  confidences.  In  the  waste  and  arid 
womb  of  Chicago's  tenderloin  a  great  friendship  had  been 
conceived.  Fielding  made  his  way  home,  repeating  to 
himself,  like  Jean-Christophe,  "I  have  a  friend." 

The  Blasphemer  lived  in  a  narrow  room  up  three  flights 
of  stairs  in  a  rooming-house  in  North  Clark  Street.  Its 
furniture  was  of  no  importance.  The  window-shade  was 
broken  in  numerous  places ;  it  had  been  yanked  up  and 
down  by  the  impatient  hands  of  many  nervous  lodgers. 
Its  rug  had  lost  its  nap ;  in  spots  it  was  worn  to  the  woof 
like  the  wasted  body  of  a  fabric  that  had  passed  away. 
The  hues  of  the  wall-paper  had  faded  as  if  unwilling  to 
occupy  any  of  the  meager  space.  Thus  far  the  room 
was  unlike  its  master,  reflecting  none  of  his  vivacity,  his 
fever  to  live.  The  creamy  skin  and  russet  hair  of  a 
Henner  print,  however,  revealed  something  of  the  taste  of 
the  occupant.  So  did  two  excellent  etchings,  and  the 
Utter  of  books  on  the  table  and  on  the  floor. 

It  was  Fielding's  introduction  to  the  novels  of  Frank 
Norris,  the  tales  of  Ambrose  Bierce  and  H.  C.  Bunner, 
and  the  editorials  of  William  Marion  Reedy.  The  Blas- 
phemer turned  to  favorite  passages  in  battered  Tauch- 


GOLD   SHOD  63 

nitz  edition  copies  of  English  plays  and  novels  that  his 
guest  had  never  heard  of. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  stick  to  advertising?'*  de- 
manded the  Blasphemer  suddenly. 

"I  don't  know.    Are  you?" 

"Not  by  a  damn  sight.  It  happens  to  be  the  straight- 
est  line  to  the  meal  ticket  just  at  this  time.  If  it  weren't 
for  the  insistent  belly-need,  I'd  kick  my  job  to  hell  and 
gone.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  turning  out  advertising  slop 
about  footgear  because  it  affords  me  any  pleasure?  Nay. 
Aw  diable  with  the  filthy  feet  of  the  masses." 

"It  does  me  good  to  hear  you  rave,"  answered  Field- 
ing. "Continue." 

"It's  what  you  need.  You're  too  complacent.  You're 
the  salt  of  the  earth,  dear  fellow,  but  you  need  more  red 
pepper  in  your  composition." 

He  crossed  to  the  closet  shelf,  took  down  a  quart  flask, 
and  began  to  prepare  some  old-fashioned  toddies. 

"You  want  to  write,"  continued  the  host.  "Well,  why 
the  devil  don't  you?  For  God's  sake  don't  let  that  job 
of  yours  fry  it  all  out  of  you." 

"I'll  write,"  said  Fielding  confidently. 

"When?" 

"When  I'm  ready  for  it." 

"Rot!  Dear  boy,  I've  heard  that  statement  before. 
But  they  never  do  it.  They  get  fat  and  contented.  They 
marry  and  breed  yowling  brats.  They  go  to  church  on 
Sundays,  mow  the  lawn,  sprinkle  the  garden,  join  a  lodge, 
pay  their  taxes,  read  the  Literary  Digest,  and  imagine 
themselves  to  be  getting  on.  Write?  Good  heavens,  they 
can't  even  write  a  letter.  Take  heed.  Don't  put  your 
soul  on  a  shelf  with  a  lot  of  shoe  boxes  and  kid  yourself 
that  some  day  you're  going  to  take  it  down  and  burnish 
it  up." 

"Don't  be  afraid.  I'm  not  so  old  yet,"  answered  Field- 
ing, looking  uncomfortably  into  the  searching  eyes  of  his 
companion.  "What  about  yourself?" 

The  Blasphemer  pulled  a  drawer  out  of  the  table. 


64  GOLD   SHOD 

"The  point  is  not  that  you're  not  old.  The  point  is  that 
you  are  still  young.  These  are  our  great,  fine,  lyric 
years.  Ch — rist !  I'm  going  to  twang  away  at  the  harp- 
strings  while  there's  youth  in  my  fingers  and  fire  in  my 
veins.  Maybe  this  manuscript,"  he  continued,  indicating 
the  papers  in  the  drawer,  "is  mainly  gibberish.  I  don't 
know,  and  I  don't  give  a  damn.  But  I  keep  on  cracking 
it  out.  Damn  me,  it's  at  least  genuine.  It's  me.  God 
help  me,  it's  me.  It's  what  I  see,  and  what  I  feel,  and 
what  I  know.  The  magazines  won't  print  it ;  it  isn't  pious 
enough  for  their  church-going  subscribers ;  it  would  leave 
a  bad  odor  in  the  nostrils  of  their  advertisers ;  it's  too 
sour  for  the  bon-bon-eating,  cake-devouring  gullets  of 
the  public.  One  editor  writes  me  that  if  I  keep  on,  I'll 
be  doing  worse  things  than  Brann,  the  Iconoclast. 
Brann!"  sneered  the  Blasphemer.  "A  tawdry  sensation- 
alist, a  word-mouther,  a  teetering  show-off.  At  that,  he 
did  a  brave  job  of  dying.  You've  got  to  hand  it  to  him 
for  the  way  he  went  out.  But  I  hold  no  brief  for  his 
wild  swing  at  letters." 

"Let  me  see  some  of  that,"  urged  Fielding,  looking 
enviously  at  the  contents  of  the  table-drawer. 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  this?"  demanded  the  other. 
"I  call  it  'The  Garbage  Can.'  "  He  read  the  brief  sketch 
to  Fielding.  "Is  it  too  sordid  for  your  fastidious  taste?" 

"No.  I  like  it.  I  wish  I  could  hang  words  together 
the  way  you  do.  Read  me  some  more." 

"Here's  something  fantastic.  'The  Green  Halo.'  See 
if  you  get  the  symbolism." 

Fielding  listened  to  the  reading  of  a  dozen  varied 
efforts.  He  was  fascinated,  and  bewildered,  and  almost 
silenced  by  this  man's  product.  Grotesque  and  unmarket- 
able stuff  it  was,  often  incoherent.  But  in  these  tense 
fragments  were  fire  and  rebellion  and  the  groping  reach 
for  realities.  The  texture  was  unfinished  and  ragged. 
But  here  was  raw  might,  lashing  right  and  left,  a  tumult 
of  graphic  impressions  set  down  with  unrelinquished 
candor. 


GOLD   SHOD  65 

I 

The  listener  carried  away  with  him  pictures  that  clung 
tenaciously  to  his  memory — of  a  harlot  weeping  beside  a 
lamp-post,  a  baby  dying  in  a  mansion  on  Lake  Shore 
Drive,  truck  horses  philosophizing  in  their  pungent  stalls, 
grave-stones  conversing  in  Graceland  Cemetery. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  morning  the  Blasphemer's  desk  was  unoccupied ; 
acting  upon  a  sudden  impulse,  he  had  resigned  and 
gone  to  New  York.    His  departure  left  an  important  void 
in  the  life  of  Fielding. 

Soon  afterward,  Fielding  went  to  a  dance  at  the  Calu- 
met Club;  his  mother  had  insisted  that  he  go.  It  was  the 
first  dance  he  had  attended  since  the  one  at  his  chapter 
house  at  college  during  his  infatuation  with  Miss  Harring- 
ton. As  he  swung  over  the  shining  floor  with  attractive 
young  women,  their  bodies  close  to  his,  the  romantic  im- 
pulse permeated  him  once  more,  feeding  his  imagination 
with  its  pleasing  presence.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  feel 
again  this  contact  with  smooth  hands  and  arms,  and  to 
lay  hold  of  refined,  corseted  figures.  Some  of  these  crea- 
tures were  like  expensive  human  candies.  Even  their 
dance-talk  had  the  melting  composition  of  confectionery. 

But  when  he  was  introduced  to  Beth  Early,  he  per- 
ceived a  different  quality  in  her.  He  found  her  more 
arresting  mentally,  and  less  of  an  impingement  upon  the 
sense  of  sex.  Her  air  was  one  of  thoughtful  gravity; 
it  gave  more  importance  to  her  smiles  when  they  appeared. 
Her  commanding  stature  made  him  straighten  up. 

"Then  you  don't  live  in  Chicago,"  he  was  remarking. 

"No,  in  Detroit." 

"I  could  curse  Detroit  for  laying  claim  to  you.  Do 
you  like  Detroit?" 

"Detroit  knows  what  it's  doing.  It  has  a  definite 
object." 

"The  automobile,"  said  Fielding. 

"The  motor  factories  fascinate  me.  Mother  says  I 
should  have  been  a  man." 

166 


GOLD   SHOD  67 

"I'm  glad  she  didn't  have  her  way,"  said  Fielding 
surveying  the  pleasing  structure  of  Miss  Early's  face, 
her  straight  nose,  the  eyes  of  grayish  blue,  the  perfected 
lines  of  her  dark  eye-brows  and  long  lashes,  the  slender 
lips  and  calm  chin. 

"You're  crazy  about  Chicago,  of  course,"  she  said. 
"Men  always  are." 

"I  am  rapidly  transferring  my  devotion  from  the  state 
of  Illinois  to  the  state  of  Michigan." 

Fielding  was  aware  of  a  quiet  strength  in  Miss  Early. 
Beneath  her  soft  exteriors,  there  seemed  to  be  a  feeling 
for  large  goals.  He  compared  her  with  other  women  he 
had  known;  they  seemed  to  him  trivial  in  contrast  with 
her;  her  beauty  grew  upon  him. 

"I'm  sorry  I  don't  dance  any  better,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. 

"You  dance  very  well ;  you're  only  out  of  practice." 

"I've  been  a  barbarian  of  late." 

"That's  a  mistake." 

Miss  Early  was  growing  more  interested  in  her  com- 
panion. She  suspected  that  he  had  possibilities,  and 
might  amount  to  something.  There  was  an  angularity 
about  him ;  his  sharp  corners  had  not  yet  all  been  rounded 
off  into  burnished  social  graces.  But  she  did  not  object 
to  this ;  it  was  an  evidence  of  strength. 

Fielding  found  her  remarkably  refreshing  after  the 
meaningless  chatter  of  other  companions.  Here  was  a 
companionship  that  was  novel  to  him.  She  had  dignity 
without  being  a  priss.  Her  manner  indicated  that  she 
was  neither  flirting  for  dances  nor  dancing  to  flirt,  and 
she  did  not  keep  him  on  edge  with  awareness  that  she 
was  of  the  opposite  sex.  That  was  a  relief;  it  heightened 
his  respect  for  her,  whetted  his  desire  to  know  her  better. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  be  in  town?"  he  asked. 

"Another  week." 

"I  want  to  see  you  again." 

"Come  and  see  me." 

She  was  attracted  by  Fielding's  remote  air,  his  quiet 


68  GOLD   SHOD 

good  humor,  his  mixture  of  sensitiveness  and  strength, 
his  undercurrent  of  seriousness.  She  knew  many  men  of 
affairs,  and  recognized  elements  in  Fielding  Glinden  that 
she  knew  would  carry  him  along  in  business;  she  found 
herself  speculating  as  to  how  far. 

After  her  return  to  Detroit,  there  began  a  frequent 
exchange  of  letters.  Fielding's  disclosed  an  engaging 
style  and  color;  he  could  write  about  himself  without 
being  a  bore ;  he  could  write  to  her  about  herself  without 
being  impertinent.  She  recognized  balance,  restraint,  and 
respect.  Always  brief,  his  letters  left  her  wishing  that 
he  had  written  more.  Thus  began  that  delightful  period 
of  exploration  and  discovery,  of  revelation  and  disclosure, 
when  two  people  are  half-strangers,  half-lovers,  when  their 
hold  upon  each  other  has  not  yet  tightened  into  a  grasp. 
Intimacy  had  not  yet  brought  its  train  of  demand  and 
rebuke,  of  high  expectations  and  painful  disillusionment, 
of  wearing  each  other  out  with  promises,  requirements, 
explanations,  doubts,  cross-purposes,  and  quarrels. 

Fielding's  discovery  that  he  was  in  love  with  Beth  Early 
was  accompanied  by  a  surprised  feeling  of  responsibility. 

He  knew  that  if  he  aspired  to  marry  a  girl  like  this, 
it  was  time  that  he  was  making  some  money,  doing  some- 
thing to  command  admiration.  He  wondered  how  to 
proceed,  and  begrudged  the  wasted  years.  He  was  merely 
marking  time  in  his  present  employment.  He  was  too 
indifferent  about  the  connection  to  suppose  that  it  would 
ever  lead  to  anything  more  important.  But  as  yet  he  had 
not  made  up  his  mind  which  way  to  turn. 

At  this  point  his  course  was  decided  for  him  by  cir- 
cumstance. 

"Glinden,"  said  his  superior  to  him  one  morning,  "you 
don't  seem  to  fit  in  here.  We  all  like  you.  We  think 
you're  bright  and  that  you've  got  all  kinds  of  promise. 
But  you  haven't  woke  up.  If  you  ever  do  wake  up,  you'll 
be  a  whirl-wind.  But  you  can  see  yourself  that  we  can't 
keep  a  man  on  the  pay-roll  who  doesn't  give  us  the  best 
he's  got.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  your  fault  or  our 


GOLD   SHOD  69 

fault.  I  never  hated  so  to  let  out  a  man  before  in  my 
life,  but  we've  got  to  retrench  and  we've  got  to  let  you  go." 

A  frank  admission  of  his  past  indifference  and  a  spirited 
promise  of  mended  ways  would  have  saved  Fielding  in 
this  crisis,  but  he  was  too  uninterested  to  make  the 
effort. 

"Did  anything  go  wrong?"  demanded  his  mother  that 
evening,  with  one  look  at  Fielding's  face. 

"I've  been  fired,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  Fielding!"  cried  the  mother.  In  her  eyes  was  a 
look  of  terror. 

"There's  nothing  so  tragic  about  having  to  change 
jobs,"  began  Fielding,  regretting  his  brutal  announce- 
ment, and  endeavoring  to  smooth  it  over. 

"It's  tragic  to  me,"  returned  his  mother. 

Fielding  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"I've  been  an  awful  disappointment  to  you,  haven't  I, 
little  mother?"  he  asked. 

"It  isn't  myself  I'm  thinking  of.  It's  you.  Unless  you 
settle  down,  and  take  a  serious  interest  in  things,  and 
amount  to  something,  it's  you  who  will  suffer.  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  you  as  just  drifting  from  job  to  job. 
I  hate  that  word  'job.'  It  goes  through  me  like  a  knife. 
I  don't  even  want  to  think  of  you  in  that  way.  You're 
above  it,  Fielding.  You  have  blood  and  breeding,  you 
have  a  good  education,  you  have  charm,  you  have  every- 
thing. There's  nothing  you  can't  accomplish,  if  you  will 
only  put  your  mind  on  your  work." 

"Would  you  feel  very  badly  if  I  didn't  make  a  go  of  it — 
in  business?"  he  inquired. 

"It  would  break  my  heart.  You  don't  know  what  a 
comfort  it  is  to  a  woman  to  see  her  men-folks  well  estab- 
lished. Please,  Fielding,  don't  disappoint  me.  Don't 
embarrass  me  before  our  neighbors.  Do  something  and 
be  something  and  make  me  proud  of  you !" 

It  was  an  uneasy  dinner  for  Fielding  that  evening. 
His  mother  had  rarely  spoken  as  pointedly  to  him  as  in 
to-night's  brief  outburst. 


70  GOLD   SHOD 

"Haven't  you  any  plans?"  resumed  Mrs.  Glinden,  at 
the  table. 

"Nothing  definite.** 

"This  is  much  too  irresponsible  a  way  to  go  through 
life.  What  can  you  be  thinking  of?"  she  demanded  im- 
patiently. 

"I  have  thought  at  times  of  going  in  for  writing  of 
some  kind,"  he  began.  "I  have  thought  of  taking  a  course 
at  the  Art  Institute.  I've  even  thought  of  taking  a  shot 
at  music." 

Mrs.  Glinden  looked  at  Fielding  incredulously. 

"But,  my  boy,  you're  an  American !"  she  protested. 

"Have  no  fear,"  laughed  the  son.  "I  am  without  talent 
for  any  of  the  arts."  Fielding  paused.  The  look  in  his 
mother's  eyes  made  him  feel  very  sorry  for  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is  that  makes  me  so  afraid," 
answered  his  mother.  "Sometimes  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  we  should  never  have  come  to  Chicago.  I  thought  it 
would  help  you  to  be  here.  But  I  don't  know.  My  whole 
ambition  has  been  to  have  you  succeed.  Perhaps  I'm  to 
blame." 

"If  I  had  half  the  ambition  that  you  have  for  me,  I'd 
be  at  least  another  Yerkes  by  this  time,"  answered  Field- 
ing. "I've  been  lazy,  worthless,  good-for-nothing.  From 
now  on,  I'm  going  to  get  busy." 


BOOK  TWO 
THE  BRASS 


CHAPTER  I 

LIKE  the  voice  of  destiny,  came  an  unexpected  letter 
from  Detroit.  It  was  from  Wayland  Emmett,  whom 
Fielding  had  known  at  college ;  it  broached  the  possibility 
of  a  connection  with  the  Bennett  Motor  Company,  of 
which  Emmett  was  sales  manager. 

Three  hours  after  its  receipt,  Fielding  boarded  a  train 
for  Detroit,  the  city  of  promise,  the  home  of  Beth  Early. 

A  service  car  met  him  the  next  morning  at  the  station 
and  bore,  him  to  the  Bennett  factory.  The  clean,  sunny 
streets,  gleaming  with  rolling  cars,  were  romantic  sights 
to  the  newcomer.  They  filled  him  with  an  exhilarating 
tension.  Thoughts  of  Beth  and  thoughts  of  the  future 
glowed  and  blossomed  in  his  brain. 

Glinden  felt  as  if  he  had  been  abruptly  drawn  into  a 
different  world.  An  acceleration  had  taken  place  in  him. 
His  childhood  in  Elyria,  his  boyhood  in  Wicker  Park 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  horse-drawn  period  of  his  life; 
and  he  felt  sure  that  that  period  was  definitely  behind 
him.  Already  his  thoughts  were  moving  with  a  click.  His 
tempo  had  changed  curiously  with  his  surroundings.  The 
sparkle  of  fast-moving  cars  had  an  effect  the  like  of 
which  he  had  never  experienced  in  Chicago. 

The  factories  that  Fielding  had  seen  in  Chicago  were 
dingy,  depressing  establishments.  The  word  "factory" 
connoted  the  dreariest  of  toil.  It  was  a  pleasant  shock 
to  discover  the  sort  of  place  this  Bennett  establishment 
was.  It  was  surrounded  by  lawns,  decorated  with  flower- 
beds and  carefully-cropped  hedgerows.  The  palatial 
reception  room  was  carpeted  with  buff  chenille.  Through 
broad  windows  poured  the  morning  sun,  illuminating  their 
hangings  of  silk  and  tapestry.  The  room's  tall  Jacobean 

73 


74  GOLD   SHOD 

chairs  seemed  fit  for  cardinals.  In  the  center  of  the  room 
stood  a  Bennett  touring  car;  its  wheelbase  looked  enor- 
mous; it  was  one  of  the  dolled-up  cars  that  had  been 
exhibited  at  the  last  annual  show  in  New  York.  On  a 
bronze  pedestal  stood  a  huge  silver  cup,  a  trophy  won  in  a 
recent  tour. 

"How  they  do  things  here !"  thought  Fielding,  awed  by 
his  surroundings. 

A  uniformed  attendant  telephoned  Fielding's  name  to 
Wayland  Emmett's  office. 

"Mr.  Emmett  will  see  you  in  a  few  minutes,"  reported 
the  clerk. 

Fielding  examined  some  of  the  Bennett  catalogues;  he 
was  mystified  by  the  tables  of  specifications,  by  the 
elaborate  charts  of  chassis  construction,  the  cross-sections 
of  power  plants.  He  knew  nothing  about  motor  cars. 

"Hello,  Glinden,  old  man,"  exclaimed  Wayland  Emmett, 
wringing  his  hand.  "Come  on  in." 

Emmett  led  the  way  through  a  long  corridor,  flanked 
by  rows  of  glass  in  front  of  columns  of  great,  flat-top 
desks. 

"So  that  the  general  manager  can  see  everything  that's 
going  on,"  observed  Emmett,  indicating  the  glass  par- 
titions. "Still,  it  has  its  drawbacks.  One  of  the  ac- 
countants estimates  that  every  time  a  pretty  stenographer 
walks  the  length  of  this  hall,  it  costs  the  company  sixty- 
five  dollars  in  time  lost  while  all  the  men  quit  working  to 
look  at  her." 

Fielding  surveyed  Wayland  Emmett's  roomy  office  with 
interest.  Its  furniture,  its  deep  brown  carpet,  its  im- 
pressive pictures  of  speedway  crowds,  race  drivers,  and 
Bennett  models,  its  blackboard  list  of  "the  ten  most  im- 
portant things  to  do  to-day,"  smacked  of  efficiency  and 
achieving  drive. 

Emmett  was  slim,  blonde,  studious-looking,  still  under 
thirty.  In  an  older  business  he  would  have  appeared 
out  of  place  at  this  post.  But  here  youth  flourished  con- 
fidently, arrogantly.  Emmett  had  the  pleasant  person- 


GOLD    SHOD  75 

ality,  controlled  energy,  nervous  strength  that  the  masters 
of  this  business  knew  how  to  use. 

"What  have  }Tou  been  doing,  Glinden?"  demanded  the 
sales  manager. 

Fielding  summarized  briefly. 

"Didn't  like  it  with  that  crowd,  eh?"  smiled  Emmett. 

"Hated  it." 

"Don't  blame  you.  The  shoe  business  would  drive  me 
mad.  Too  slow.  You'd  like  it  better  here.  We're  all  of 
us  right  on  our  toes.  Things  hum!" 

"I  know  I'd  like  it,"  said  Fielding  excitedly. 

"The  job  contains  a  real  opportunity  for  a  man  who 
can  take  advantage  of  it,"  spoke  Wayland  Emmett, 
signing  letters  as  he  talked. 

Fielding  was  thinking  of  Beth. 

"There's  a  chance  here  for  some  one  to  go  like  hell," 
continued  Emmett.  "This  company  has  grown  too  fast. 
There's  a  tremendous  job  to  be  done.  We  have  dealers 
who  ought  to  be  dealing  nothing  but  cards,  and  distribu- 
tors who  ought  to  be  peddling  handbills.  Some  of  them 
don't  know  rear  axles  from  ignition.  We're  cleaning 
house.  We're  separating  the  business  men  from  the  chair- 
warmers,  and  giving  the  latter  a  swift  kick. 

"We're  going  to  have  a  real  organization.  We're 
tightening  up  on  credits,  insisting  on  service  to  owners, 
establishing  stiff  quotas,  pulling  off  sales  contests,  and 
trying  to  make  merchants  out  of  every  man  who  handles 
the  Bennett  car.  It's  no  holiday  pastime.  It's  work." 

Emmett,  warming  to  his  discussion,  talked  for  nearly 
an  hour.  His  sentences  flowed  in  crisp,  incisive  terms. 
He  explained  the  kind  of  men  he  wanted  to  assist  him  in 
his  task,  what  they  would  have  to  be  and  do,  what  ob- 
stacles they  would  encounter. 

"There's  plenty  of  grief  to  the  job,  plenty  of  nasty 
customers  to  face,  a  lot  of  mistakes  to  iron  out,  a  raft 
of  bad  effects  from  mistaken  company  policies  to  over- 
come," he  talked  on.  "But  from  what  I  know  of  you, 
and  from  the  way  I  size  you  up,  you  seem  to  have  the 


76  GOLD   SHOD 

stuff  that  I  could  use.  You  have  breeding  and  bearing 
and  the  right  front.  You  may  and  may  not  have  the 
punch.  You  may  develop  it  and  you  may  not.  But  I'll 
stand  back  of  you.  The  job  pays  thirty  a  week  to  start. 
If  you  show  any  form  in  six  months,  you  get  fifty.  After 
that  the  sky's  the  limit.  We've  just  taken  a  chief  engi- 
neer away  from  one  of  the  oldest  companies  in  the  busi- 
ness and  we're  paying  him  twenty-five  thousand  a  year. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"I  accept,"  said  Fielding  without  hesitation. 

"How  soon  can  you  start?" 

"Now." 

"Fine  work!" 

Emmett  pressed  a  buzzer.    A  stenographer  entered. 

"Wire  your  folks  that  you're  going  to  stay,"  said 
Emmett. 

Within  the  hour,  Fielding  had  been  introduced  to  a 
dozen  of  the  leading  members  of  the  organization. 

"I  like  you,"  said  Bennett,  the  president,  after  a  few 
moments'  conversation  with  Fielding  in  the  throne-room, 
gleaming  with  silver  trophies.  "You'll  make  good." 

Bennett  was  hardly  thirty-five.  Back  of  his  placid, 
pampered-looking  pink-cheeked  exterior,  back  of  his 
ready  smile  and  boyish  laugh,  was  a  gusty  temper,  an 
astonishing  capacity  to  drive,  a  passion  for  results.  He 
never  smoked;  it  would  have  interfered  with  his  work. 
He  never  drank ;  he  craved  other  intoxicants — gallops  at 
dawn,  fast  driving,  fast  money-making,  fast  women.  His 
personality  was  disarming:  he  kept  his  sharp  points  cov- 
ered, his  shrewdness  concealed. 

"Don't  ever  let  a  customer  get  the  idea  that  you're 
smarter  than  he  is,"  was  one  of  his  maxims.  It  had  made 
him  millions. 

Kram,  the  chief  engineer,  had  a  tawny  face,  a  haggard 
speed-face.  His  deep-set  eyes  had  a  savage  look  in  them. 
They  seemed  to  have  been  jammed  back  into  their  face  by 
the  hammering  of  the  air  during  driving.  His  office  was 
littered  with  road  maps,  wooden  models,  blue  prints,  sam- 


GOLD    SHOD  77 

pies  of  metal,  vials  of  brownish  oil.  He  seemed  morose, 
hardly  conscious  of  Fielding's  presence. 

"Hardly  human,"  remarked  Emmett  as  they  came  out. 
"Kram's  a  whizz.  He  bangs  a  test  car  from  Detroit  to 
San  Francisco  and  back  in  ten  days.  He  once  hung  a 
mattress  against  a  stone  wall  and  battered  a  car  against 
it  for  half  an  hour  to  see  what  she'd  stand." 

Newendyke,  the  general  manager,  was  a  pompous 
personage.  He  had  formerly  been  a  patent  attorney  in 
Chicago.  He  had  a  hard,  fleshy  hand,  a  hearty,  rotund 
laugh,  and  shone  in  "inspirational"  talks  before  sales 
conventions  and  meetings  of  manufacturers. 

"Be  sure  you  sell  yourself  to  Newendyke,"  said  Way- 
land  Emmett.  "He's  a  likable  slob  when  you  get  to  know 
him.  You've  got  to  have  him  on  your  side,  if  you  want 
to  get  on.  Ask  his  advice  about  something  every  few 
days.  He  loves  it.  Compliment  him  on  his  speeches ;  ask 
where  you  can  get  printed  copies  of  them.  He  eats  it  up. 
Don't  let  him  think  you're  neglecting  him." 

A  guide  conveyed  Fielding  through  the  plant.  He  had 
never  visited  a  factory  before.  He  had  always  thought 
of  motor  cars  in  terms  of  flight  over  fragrant  country 
roads.  He  saw  them  now  in  terms  of  enormous  presses 
smashing  steel  plates  into  fenders,  of  a  tangle  of  re- 
volving belting  in  the  machine  shops,  of  painting,  wood- 
working, upholstering,  and  the  final  assembly.  He 
proceeded  in  a  stupor.  He  had  crossed  new  thresholds. 
Through  the  smells  of  oils,  and  leathers,  and  wood-  and 
metal-filings,  came  perfumed  memories  of  Beth  Early. 
He  felt  nearer  to  her  in  this  crash  of  attainments. 

Here  was  a  business  that  gave  him  something  to  get 
his  eyes  on,  something  to  get  his  hands  on.  It  was  stimu- 
lating to  see  the  product  being  made,  to  see  big  men  at 
work.  Already  it  had  quickened  his  pace  and  his  mind. 
He  was  emerging  from  the  dreamy  apathy  with  which 
he  had  viewed  the  world  of  realities.  Always  in  the  past, 
he  had  gone  to  his  tasks  indifferently,  often  with  con- 
tempt for  the  concerns  that  employed  him,  with  his  sense 


78  GOLD    SHOD 

of  beauty  ever  setting  up  its  interference.  But  this  was 
different.  This  business  moved  with  a  flash  that  picked 
him  up  and  carried  him  along.  He  respected  these  men. 
He  was  fascinated  with  the  sullen  Kram,  brooding  over 
strange  documents,  a  recluse  in  his  world  of  engines  and 
specifications. 

That  evening,  Fielding  went  to  see  Beth  Early.  She 
lived  with  her  mother  and  her  stepfather  on  a  pleasant 
street  of  spacious  residences.  Clean  breezes  rustled  in  the 
masses  of  young  elm  leaves  overhead.  It  was  a  street  of 
shrubs  and  leisure,  of  trellises  and  sloping  lawns.  Yellow 
eyes  smouldered  in  front  of  shadowy  cars  at  the  curbs. 
He  sighed  romantically.  Some  day  such  a  car  must  stand 
outside  a  home  of  his  own. 

He  stepped  to  the  door  and  rang.  A  smartly  attired 
maid  answered  and  showed  him  into  the  living-room. 
There  he  was  greeted  by  a  plump,  good-looking  woman 
of  about  forty-five. 

"Come  in," Mr.  Glinden,"  she  began.  "I'm  Beth's 
mother,  Mrs.  Ellis.  I'm  so  happy  to  meet  you." 

"I'm  delighted  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Ellis,"  replied 
Fielding. 

"I  should  have  known  you  from  Beth's  description," 
said  the  other,  surveying  him.  "Won't  you  be  seated. 
Beth  will  be  down  in  a  moment." 

So  this  was  Beth's  mother? — thought  Fielding  with 
disappointment.  Mrs.  Ellis  sat  primly  in  a  satin  chair; 
her  small,  plump  hands  glittered  with  heavy  rings;  her 
trim  little  finger  nails  gleamed  with  careful  manicuring. 
She  conversed  chirpily  about  the  weather,  her  servants, 
her  ailments. 

"My  neuritis  drives  me  almost  mad  at  times,"  she 
informed  him.  "I've  consulted  enough  doctors  to  cure  a 
regiment,  but  it  seems  to  be  perfectly  useless,"  she  said 
with  a  breathy,  self-pitying  sigh. 

"It  must  be  very  painful,"  said  Fielding,  conscious  of 
his  lack  of  social  graces,  and  searching  for  soothing  small- 
talk. 


GOLD   SHOD  79 

A  chesty  little  man  of  about  fifty  entered. 

"Mr.  Ellis,  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Glinden,"  spoke 
Mrs.  Ellis. 

The  two  men  took  each  other's  measure.  A  light-weight, 
concluded  Fielding.  A  promising  young  fellow,  surmised 
Ellis.  Fielding  remembered  that  Beth  had  said  that  her 
stepfather  was  a  lawyer;  but  to  the  younger  man,  this 
affable,  dapper  individual  seemed  anything  but  able  to 
wage  legal  battles.  A  lock  of  graying  hair  was  flattened 
painstakingly  out  over  a  bald  spot  on  his  crown.  He 
took  a  seat  on  the  divan,  folded  his  small  hands  and  con- 
versed in  a  high-pitched  voice  about  Chicago,  Detroit,  and 
business  conditions. 

Fielding  wondered  what  Beth  talked  about  to  these 
people.  He  felt  complimented  at  their  interest  in  him, 
but  was  not  drawn  to  them.  He  considered  Beth  superior 
to  them  both,  and  resented  their  claims  of  kinship  upon 
her.  These  two  people  had  a  disturbing  effect  upon  his 
established  impressions  of  Beth  Early.  There  was  a 
nervous  tension  in  this  household ;  he  did  not  like  it ;  he 
felt  ill  at  ease.  He  could  not  escape  the  impression  that 
Beth's  mother  viewed  him  with  suspicion  and  that  her 
graciousness  was  all  feigned. 

Beth  appeared  in  the  doorway,  her  hand  extended. 

"Nice  of  you  to  run  in,"  she  said. 

"Thanks,"  replied  Fielding.  "It's  delightful  to  see  you 
again." 

His  first  impression  was  of  her  commanding  height  and 
melodious  voice.  She  was  paler  than  on  the  night  of  the 
dance  in  Chicago.  She  seemed  to  be  appraising  him 
thoughtfully,  and  Fielding  found  himself  going  anxiously 
back  over  his  letters  to  her,  wondering  if  *he  had  written 
too  freely. 

The  Ellises  excused  themselves  to  make  a  neighborhood 
call,  leaving  Beth  and  Fielding  together. 

"Shall  you  be  in  town  long?"  asked  Beth. 

"I  hope  so.  I've  gone  to  work  for  the  Bennett  Com- 
pany. Sales  department." 


80  GOLD   SHOD 

"You  interest  me,"  said  Beth  enthusiastically.  In  her 
eyes  was  almost  the  same  look  that  had  lighted  the  eyes 
of  Fielding's  mother  when  he  had  stated  his  decision  to 
look  into  the  position  in  Detroit. 

"Not  that  I  consider  myself  cut  out  for  anything  like 
this,  but  the  Bennett  people  seem  to  think  I  can  get  away 
with  it,"  replied  Fielding  apologetically. 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  can't." 

"There's  every  reason,"  laughed  Fielding.  "The  idea 
of  selling  anything  has  always  grated  on  me,  somehow. 
I'd  rather  make  a  thing  than  peddle  it,"  he  added,  unable 
to  express  himself  any  better. 

"Then  you  must  watch  your  chance  to  get  into  the  pro- 
duction end  of  the  business,  and  become  a  manufacturer." 

"Yes,  I  might  do  that,"  returned  Fielding,  but  without 
much  interest.  "Do  you  know,  when  I  was  a  youngster, 
I  had  a  notion  that  I  should  like  to  be  a  piano-tuner." 

"Fancy,"  smiled  Beth. 

"Do  you  play?"    He  glanced  at  the  baby-grand. 

Beth  shook  her  head. 

"Who  does?" 

"Only  visitors.  Mother  tried  to  drive  me  to  it  when 
I  was  a  child,  but  I  never  cared  for  it.  I  seemed  to  realize 
that  I  should  never  be  able  to  play  as  I  wanted  to.  I 
hate  anything  unfinished  or  amateurish." 

Fielding  learned  that  Beth's  father,  Carter  Early,  had 
once  owned  and  operated  one  of  the  largest  fleet  of  ore- 
carrying  freighters  on  the  Great  Lakes.  The  collapse 
of  his  business  and  the  loss  of  his  fortune  were  soon  fol- 
lowed by  his  death.  Beth's  father  had  been  her  idol. 
The  impulse  of  the*  builder  and  the  executive  had  flowed 
from  him  into  her  and  fired  her  dreams.  She  adored  that 
kind  of  man.  Fielding  fancied  that  it  was  hard  for  her 
at  times  to  conceal  her  contempt  for  this  softling  who 
had  become  her  stepfather.  She  had  none  of  the  flighty 
emotionalism  of  her  mother,  who  had  never  taken  much 
interest  in  her  first  husband's  undertakings,  had  always 
resented  his  work  which  kept  him  out  of  society,  which 


GOLD   SHOD  81 

she  adored  and  for  which  she  lived.  She  had  been  afraid 
of  him,  afraid  of  his  strength,  his  hardness,  his  willfulness, 
his  concentration  for  prolonged  periods  upon  his  labors. 
And  Beth's  lymphatic  grace  sheathed  a  sword  of  ambition 
bequeathed  to  her  by  her  father. 

As  Fielding  sat  talking  to  her,  it  began  dawning  upon 
him  that  with  the  aid  of  such  a  woman  as  this,  there  were 
no  limits  to  the  lengths  he  might  go.  He  suspected  if  he 
could  ever  pierce  her  shell  of  lovely  indifference,  he  would 
discover  a  reservoir  of  power.  Beneath  her  soft,  fine 
textures,  there  seemed  to  be  the  strong  potential  stroke 
of  a  steady  driving-force. 

Having  left  her,  Fielding  could  hardly  recall  the  color 
of  her  eyes,  or  the  hue  of  her  dress.  He  recalled  most 
vividly  her  proud  air  and  splendid  neck.  He  could  not 
dissociate  her  from  his  new  connection  with  the  Bennett 
organization.  He  thought  of  her  as  an  ally,  as  a  source 
of  power  he  himself  did  not  possess. 


CHAPTER  II 

DO  you  know  anything  about  a  motor  car?'*  demanded 
Wayland  Emmett  the  following  day. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Fielding. 

"Then  your  first  job  here  is  to  get  acquainted  with  the 
product  we're  manufacturing.  Out  to  the  shops  for  you. 
Don't  report  again  until  you  know  how  we  build  this  car. 
I  don't  want  you  around  me  until  you  know  the  machine 
we're  selling." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do — put  me  in  a  pair  of 
overalls?"  asked  Fielding  uncomfortably. 

"I  would  if  there  were  time.  It  would  be  worth  money 
to  you,  and  money  to  me.  But  teaching  the  men  in  my 
department  this  business  from  the  bottom  up  is  a  luxury 
I  can't  afford.  I've  got  to  get  quicker  action  than  that." 

Fielding  breathed  more  easily. 

"Take  a  week,  take  two  weeks  if  necessary  to  get 
familiar  with  the  product." 

"I  imagine  making  a  car  is  a  complicated  job,"  observed 
Fielding. 

"From  now  on,  quit  imagining,"  returned  Emmett. 
"What  I'm  interested  in  is  facts.  Cut  out  the  guesswork. 
What  you  want  to  do  from  now  on  is  to  know." 

Emmett's  voice  was  pleasant,  but  his  eyes  were  stern. 

"Another  thing  to  remember,"  he  continued,  "is  to  make 
friends  around  here.  Your  success  or  failure  with  this 
organization  will  be  determined  by  your  ability  to  make 
friends.  Every  man  you  meet  is  going  to  be  either  for 
you  or  against  you.  Get  'em  to  like  you,  down  to  the 
porters  and  the  scrubwomen.  It's  a  democratic  bunch, 
and  they're  quick  to  size  a  new  man  up.  Some  hard- 
looking  Wop  down  in  the  engine-room  may  be  the  chief 

82 


GOLD   SHOD  83 

engineer  of  this  establishment  in  a  few  years  from  now. 
Don't  let  them  get  thet  idea  that  there's  anything  up-stage 
about  you." 

More  than  once  during  the  next  fortnight,  as  Fielding 
continued  his  progress  through  acre  after  acre  of  the 
factory's  floorspace,  his  instincts  rebelled.  The  din  of 
manufacturing  did  not  thrill  him.  The  machining  of 
cylinders  down  to  one  one-thousandth  of  an  inch  in  ac- 
curacy ;  three  thousand  revolutions  per  minute  of  the 
motors  on  the  testing  block ;  the  roar  of  mass-production 
did  not  thrill  him.  Only  the  will  to  become  a  part  of 
this  mechanical  inferno  enabled  him  to  center  his  attention 
upon  it* 

He  permitted  a  decent  amount  of  time  to  elapse  before 
going  to  see  Beth  again.  He  found  her  looking  remark- 
ably charming. 

"You  look  stunning  to-night,"  he  said,  surveying  her 
tall  white-clad  figure  with  admiring  eyes. 

"Thank  you." 

"I  marvel  that  some  fellow  hasn't  stolen  you." 

"I'm  not  the  kind  that  gets  stolen." 

"Don't  be  too  sure." 

Fielding's  mood  to-night  was  one  of  peculiar  loneliness. 
Again  and  again  during  the  evening  he  found  himself 
reacting  strongly  to  Beth's  magnetism.  Her  gracious 
air  captivated  him. 

"You've  been  deucedly  decent  to  me  since  I've  been  in 
town,"  he  said  finally.  "At  times  it  encourages  me  to 
imagine  that  you  don't  resent  my  caring  for  you.  You've 
noticed,  of  course  that  I  do.  You're  the  most  stimulating 
girl  I  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to  discover." 

Beth  met  his  look  with  smiling  self-possession. 

"I  suppose  you've  listened  to  a  lot  of  men  make  love  to 
you.  I  wish  I  could  do  it  more  gracefully.  It  seems 
almost  ridiculous  for  me  to  be  talking  to  you  like  this, 
without  a  thing  to  offer  you.  But  I  will  have  one  of 
these  days.  I  never  knew  I  could  work  up  such  an  interest 
in  business,  but  your  encouragement  has  meant  every- 


84  GOLD   SHOD 

thing  to  me,  and  I'll  soon  be  in  a  position  to  tell  you  how- 
much  I  really  love  you.  For  I  have  sense  enough  to  know 
that  Mid- Victorian  love  in  a  cottage  would  never  interest 
you." 

"No,  indeed,"  laughed  Beth  lightly. 

"I  shouldn't  want  it  to.  You're  queenly  and  belong  in 
a  palace." 

"Cease,  Sir  Knight,"  said  Beth  banteringly,  with  a 
courtly  wave  of  her  slender  hand. 

Highly  satisfied  with  his  call,  Fielding  strode  toward 
his  lodgings  through  the  summer  night.  He  felt  that  an 
understanding  had  been  established,  and  was  exhilarated. 
Detroit  had  been  good  to  him;  the  pleasing  homes  and 
ruddy  window-panes  brought  gracious  visions  of  do- 
mesticity. 

He  turned  briskly  into  Woodward  Avenue,  watching 
its  trolley  cars  and  fast-moving  motors.  From  the  latter 
rang  the  laughter  of  their  occupants.  On  the  sidewalks 
were  the  strolling  figures  of  hatless  young  fellows  and 
their  girls.  At  the  fountains  of  the  drug-stores,  the  hot 
and  thirsty  were  cooling  their  throats  with  ice-cream 
sodas.  As  he  drew  nearer  to  the  down-town  region,  the 
vehicles  and  pedestrians  grew  more  numerous ;  groups  of 
youths  idled  at  the  corners,  flirting  with  passing  girls. 

Fielding's  conversation  with  Beth  recurred  to  him;  it 
made  him  feel  older,  brought  its  new  sense  of  responsi- 
bility, imposed  a  new  sense  of  decorum.  He  realized  that 
he  had  placed  himself  under  obligations  to  Beth  Early, 
that  he  had  committed  himself  to  a  program  of  courtship, 
that  he  was  no  longer  free.  All  of  a  sudden  he  felt  a 
mild  sense  of  panic.  He  remembered  the  freedom  of  older 
days,  how  little  he  had  actually  used  it,  what  a  mistake 
that  had  been. 

From  an  attractive-looking  bar-room  came  a  peal  of 
laughter.  Fielding  went  in,  and  ordered  a  gin  rickey, 
the  first  strong  drink  he  had  had  since  arriving  in  Detroit. 
The  cool  sting  of  the  liquid  carried  him  back  to  delightful 


GOLD   SHOD  85 

sessions  with  the  Blasphemer.  What  a  roar  of  protest 
would  come  from  the  Blasphemer  if  he  knew  that  Fielding 
was  again  working  in  a  factory  and  in  a  fair  way  to  be- 
come engaged  to  be  married. 

"Another  of  the  same,"  he  said,  pushing  his  empty  glass 
toward  the  bar-tender. 

Fielding  reentered  the  sultry  street  with  the  refreshing 
taste  of  lime  and  gin  in  his  mouth;  his  blood  moved  faster; 
his  eyes  roved  the  street  for  adventure.  It  seemed  rather 
a  pity  to  him  that  he  had  committed  himself  to  this  new 
emotional  responsibility;  the  two  drinks  had  dampened 
his  satisfaction  with  the  interview  with  Beth.  He 
found  himself  examining  various  young  women  who 
passed. 

As  he  wandered  on,  his  eyes  were  arrested  by  the  black 
satin  shoes,  black  dress,  white  skin,  and  salmon-colored 
hat  of  a  young  woman  who  was  crossing  the  park  toward 
the  Tuller  Hotel.  He  saw  her  enter  and  go  into  one  of 
the  telephone  booths. 

"Gad,  she's  pretty,"  he  thought. 

He  selected  a  chair  near  the  booth  and  watched  her 
through  the  glass  door.  Her  head  was  erect,  her  chin 
was  held  high.  Her  moving  lips  and  clean  profile  were 
very  seductive.  She  was  probably  telephoning  some  man 
and  making  an  appointment,  he  thought  enviously.  His 
blood  began  to  drum. 

When  she  came  out  of  the  booth,  he  saw  her  look  at 
him ;  he  thought  that  a  faint  smile  swept  her  face,  but 
was  not  sure.  She  looked  a  little  more  common  to  him 
now  but  he  rose  with  a  sudden  impulse,  and  crossed  to 
where  she  was  standing  irresolutely. 

"Alone?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  him  over  questioningly,  then  nodded. 

"What  do  you  say  to  coming  up  to  the  roof  garden  and 
having  something  to  eat?"  he  suggested. 

"Not  here,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Some  other  place  then,"  he  answered,  pleased  with 
her  acquiescence. 


86  GOLD    SHOD 

As  they  left  the  hotel  together,  he  took  her  arm.  Sud- 
denly he  thought  of  Beth. 

"I  must  be  crazy,"  he  reflected. 

He  studied  the  face  of  the  girl  at  his  side,  comparing 
her  youthful  nose,  penciled  eyes,  red  lips,  and  delightful 
little  chin  with  the  more  mature  and  less  sensuous  features 
of  Beth  Early. 

"I  saw  you  looking  at  me  when  I  was  phoning,'*  said 
his  companion. 

"Guilty." 

"Cutie,"  she  laughed. 

"Any  special  place  you'd  like  to  go?" 

She  named  a  nearby  restaurant. 

"Wherever  you  say,"  he  replied. 

"You  seem  to  like  me." 

"I'm  growing  fonder  of  you  every  minute  I'm  with  you." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you're  so  delightful." 

"So  are  you." 

"It's  too  bad  I've  been  in  Detroit  for  a  month  without 
discovering  you  before,"  said  Fielding. 

"Isn't  it  a  shame?     Well,  what  is  to  be,  will  be." 

"You're  a  fatalist." 

"What's  that?" 

"One  who  believes  in  the  inevitability  of  circumstance." 

"What's  all  that?" 

Fielding  solemnly  repeated  the  statement. 

"Teach  me  how  to  rattle  that  off.  It  listens  good," 
said  the  other,  screwing  up  her  nose  and  saying  the  words 
after  him. 

"Bravo.     You're  an  apt  pupil." 

They  were  soon  seated  at  one  of  the  tables  of  a  lively 
cafe.  A  pianist  was  pounding  out  countless  repetitions 
of  "Truly  Rural,"  the  song-hit  of  the  day ;  a  droll-faced 
youth,  drunk  enough  to  be  amusing,  swaggered  to  and 
fro  among  the  tables,  chanting  the  words. 

Fielding  and  his  companion  pecked  at  rarebits  and 
sipped  ginger  ale  highballs.  The  whiskey,  joining  the  gin 


GOLD   SHOD  87 

he  had  already  consumed,  penetrated  his  nerves  and  made 
them  hum  with  desire.  He  surveyed  the  girl  at  his  table 
with  caresses  in  his  eyes.  It  seemed  ridiculous  to  have 
to  be  at  his  desk  at  the  factory  at  eight  o'clock  the  next 
morning.  The  Blasphemer's  words  recurred  to  him — 
"There  are  times  when  only  a  woman  will  suffice." 

"It's  awfully  hot  in  here,"  said  the  girl,  looking  at  him 
with  tired  eyes.  "Let's  go." 

Fielding  called  a  taxi;  the  girl  gave  the  driver  her 
street  number.  Fielding  helped  her  into  the  open  car 
with  a  sense  of  defiant  pleasure,  and  took  his  seat  beside 
her.  He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"The  air  feels  good,"  said  the  girl,  taking  off  her  hat 
and  letting  the  wind  stream  through  her  ash-blonde  hair. 

Fielding  was  flushed  with  his  adventure;  he  felt  that 
he  was  in  great  luck ;  it  was  his  first  relaxation  of  the  kind 
since  his  arrival  in  Detroit. 

The  car  swung  around  a  corner  and  stopped  in  front 
of  a  brick  residence  in  a  street  of  rooming  houses. 

"Let's  drive  some  more,"  he  proposed.  "The  air  will 
do  you  good." 

"Not  to-night.     I'm  all  tuckered  out." 

The  girl  unlocked  the  outer  door  and  entered  the  dark 
hallway,  Fielding  following. 

"Good  night,"  she  said. 

"Not  yet.    Let  me  go  in  with  you,"  he  urged. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Please." 

"No,  I  couldn't  do  that." 

"Please,"  he  begged. 

"Honestly,  I  couldn't." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  never  take  any  men  in  here." 

"Then  let's  go  to  a  hotel." 

"Not  to-night." 

"Some  other  time?" 

"Maybe.     You  run  along  now." 

"Not  before  I  kiss  you. 


88  GOLD   SHOD 

"Just  once." 

Fielding  took  her  in  his  arms  and  planted  kiss  after  kiss 
upon  her  lips  and  face. 

"Some  one's  liable  to  come  in,"  she  said,  drawing  away. 

"No  one's  coming,"  he  panted.  "You're  irresistible. 
What  makes  you  so  sweet?" 

"Men  are  all  alike,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with 
tolerant  cynicism. 

"Women  aren't.  If  women  were  all  as  enticing  as  you, 
I'd  be  reeling  through  life  like  a  madman." 

"That's  what  you  say  now.  But  I've  heard  fellas  rave 
before." 

As  Fielding  strode  toward  his  lodgings,  he  wondered 
what  sort  of  tangles  of  sex  the  rest  of  the  Bennett  men 
were  mixed  up  in.  Unacquainted  with  the  private  lives 
of  other  men,  he  had  often  thought  that  his  recurrent 
weaknesses  for  women  did  not  exist  in  others,  but  betrayed 
a  perversity  of  his  own  that  had  to  be  watched  and  curbed. 
He  had  never  had  it  brought  home  to  him  that  a  strain 
of  the  libertine  courses  in  seductive  currents  through  even 
the  most  conventional.  He  had  considered  it  a  peculiarity 
of  his  own  to  covet  strange  and  beautiful  women  and  to 
follow  them  with  his  desires.  Thoughts  of  Beth  Early 
marched  reproachfully  through  him.  He  must  have  been 
crazy  to  do  what  he  had  done  in  the  hallway, 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  misty  brightness  of  a  crisp  November  morning 
covered  Detroit;  the  sidewalks  were  powdered  with 
frost ;  the  trolley-cars  were  black  with  loads  of  workers 
bound  for  various  factories.  Fielding  avoided  the  street- 
cars; they  made  him  feel  common;  he  preferred  to  start 
earlier  and  walk  to  the  factory.  He  watched  the  shining 
touring  cars  as  they  rolled  past,  bearing  officials  to  their 
desks,  and  envied  them  this  luxury  of  transportation. 

He  was  outlining  a  memorandum  in  his  mind.  With 
observing  eyes  and  critical  mind,  he  had  been  watching 
the  affairs  of  the  sales  department  and  studying  its  con- 
tact with  branches,  distributors,  and  dealers.  He  had 
read  and  replied  to  hundreds  of  letters  from  Bennett 
representatives,  had  noted  and  summarized  their  com- 
plaints and  suggestions,  their  various  excuses  for  poor 
business,  their  reasons  why  motorists  were  buying  other 
cars.  By  degrees,  he  was  growing  familiar  with  weak- 
nesses of  the  department. 

Having  cleared  his  desk  of  the  morning's  correspond- 
ence, Fielding  attacked  the  memorandum.  He  had  been 
planning  it  for  weeks;  his  data  were  assembled;  his 
arguments  were  carefully  considered ;  even  finished  phrases 
were  ready  to  leap  into  their  sentences.  He  let  his 
imagination  play  to  and  fro  over  the  situation,  punched 
holes  through  the  texture  of  the  department  where  it  was 
too  thin,  and  endeavored  to  make  repairs  with  construc- 
tive suggestions. 

But  later  in  the  day,  when  the  typewritten  pages  were 
laid  before  him,  he  wondered  if  he  was  making  a  mistake. 
He  made  cuts,  corrections,  and  numerous  revisions.  Then 
he  took  the  communication  to  Wayland  Emmett. 

89 


90  GOLD   SHOD 

For  two  days,  he  heard  nothing  from  Emmett.  On  the 
third  day,  the  other  called  him  into  his  office. 

"I've  been  going  over  your  memorandum,  Glinden," 
began  the  sales  manager.  "There's  a  wallop  to  it  that  I 
like.  It  shows  that  you've  got  your  ear  to  the  ground 
and  your  mind  on  the  job.  Some  of  your  suggestions 
are  visionary  and  impractical.  But  there's  enough  sound 
common  sense  here  to  keep  us  busy  for  six  months,  carry- 
ing out  some  of  your  ideas.  I'm  glad  you  let  out  this 
roar.  It  shows  that  my  judgment  was  right  when  I  hired 
you,  and  that  you  didn't  make  a  mistake  to  come  here. 
I've  had  this  up  with  Mr.  Bennett." 

"You  have!    What  did  he  say?" 

"He  told  me  to  give  you  a  raise,  and  to  make  you  an 
assistant  sales  manager." 

"He  did?"  exclaimed  Fielding. 

"Right.  I'm  glad  to  confer  the  title  on  you.  Sign  it 
to  your  letters,  and  more  power  to  them.  Your  idea  to 
shoot  form  letters  out  of  this  office  to  doctors,  dentists, 
bank  presidents,  chamber  of  commerce  men,  and  the  like, 
telling  them  why  they  ought  to  be  driving  Bennett  cars, 
is  fine.  How  long  will  it  take  you  to  get  your  lists?" 

"I  already  have  them." 

"Good.  And  your  hunch  to  keep  hammering  away  at 
mayors  of  cities  until  we  can  say  in  our  advertising  that 
such  and  such  a  high  percentage  of  all  the  mayors  in 
America  ride  in  Bennetts,  is  a  bird.  Get  after  it." 

On  Fielding's  next  call  upon  Beth,  he  said: 

"I  wrote  that  memorandum  we  talked  about ;  I  included 
all  of  the  ideas  you  suggested ;  it  made  quite  a  hit." 

"I'm  glad.     What  did  they  say?" 

"Raised  my  salary  and  made  me  assistant  sales  man- 
ager." 

"Splendid!" 

"You  did  this  for  me.  I  should  probably  never  have 
thought  of  it  myself." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Beth  impatiently.    "The  only  trouble 


GOLD   SHOD  91 

with  you  is  that  you  haven't  enough  confidence  in  your- 
self." 

Fielding  sat  looking  at  the  charming  droop  of  one  of 
her  eyelids.  He  reached  for  her  passive  hand  and  pressed 
it  fervently  to  his  lips. 

"I  adore  you,"  he  said  with  a  sudden  intensity. 
"You've  got  to  care  for  me.  I'm  going  to  make  you  care 
for  me,  whether  you  want  to  or  not.  You've  taught  me 
how  to  go  after  what  I  want,  and  there's  nothing  that  I 
want  more  than  you.  You  care  for  me  a  little,  don't  you, 
Beth?" 

Beth  nodded. 

"That's  all  I  want  to  know."  He  drew  her  impulsively 
to  him,  and  kissed  her. 

Mrs.  Ellis  cleared  her  throat  in  the  adjoining  room, 
and  Beth  drew  quickly  away  just  as  her  mother  entered. 

Fielding  now  felt  a  new  tenderness  toward  Beth  and  her 
mother;  this  evening  had  vastly  altered  his  relations 
towards  this  household.  He  surveyed  Beth  with  new  eyes ; 
a  gleam  of  the  possessive  had  entered  into  them.  He 
studied  the  bearing,  the  address,  the  urbanity  of  this 
excellent  young  woman ;  he  was  pleased  with  her  ease  and 
charm;  she  would  make  him  a  wife  to  be  proud  of.  She 
would  be  more  than  a  wife  to  him ;  she  would  be  his  coun- 
sellor, a  reliable  and  steadying  influence. 

The  impetuous  approach-shots  that  had  carried  him  to 
the  acquiescent  nod  of  her  head  differed  curiously  from 
the  language  with  which  he  had  wooed  others.  He  realized 
that  he  did  net  feel  quite  the  electric  desire  that  had 
drawn  him  to  others  whom  he  had  wanted  as  mistresses. 
In  earlier  reflections  upon  the  subject  of  marriage,  he 
had  pictured  himself  being  drawn  to  a  woman,  potentially 
both  ally  and  mistress.  But  after  all,  what  an  absurd  and 
juvenile  theory*  He  had  grown  more  sophisticated  since 
then.  What  he  now  considered  to  be  of  most  importance 
in  a  wife  was  not  the  drag-net  of  the  flesh,  but  the  subtler 
summons  of  a  mind  that  moved  in  unison  with  his,  of  re- 
sourceful generalship,  an  intuition  that  would  lay  its 


92  GOLD   SHOD 

guiding  hand  upon  the  driving  power  that  he  was  de- 
veloping. 

"Good  night,"  said  Beth  in  mellow  contralto  when  he 
was  taking  his  leave. 

"Good  night,"  he  returned,  taking  her  hand.  "You've 
given  me  a  new  lease  on  life." 

In  the  many-ringed  circus  of  American  business,  be- 
trothal is  a  potent  force.  Marriage  often  lays  its  de- 
taining hands  upon  an  able  fellow  who  might  otherwise 
have  performed  effectively,  for  he  must  share  his  vitality 
with  his  wife,  not  in  strengthening  moments  of  emotional 
exchange,  but  in  daily,  and  incessant  giving.  A  man  of 
more  abundant  vitality  can  keep  going  when  his  com- 
panions are  tired  out  with  this  draining  taxation  of  the 
home,  and  can  labor  ten,  twelve,  or  fourteen  hours  against 
another's  eight.  But  the  exhilarating  effects  of  betrothal 
are  different.  It  builds  roaring  fires  beneath  the  boilers. 

During  this  period  of  Fielding's  engagement  to  Beth 
Early,  his  initiative  and  enterprise  were  a  delight  to  Way- 
land  Emmett.  He  was  often  at  his  desk  long  after  the 
others  had  gone,  laboring  at  sales  promotion,  devising 
new  ways  to  interest  successful  merchants  who  were 
handling  other  lines  or  selling  rival  cars,  contriving 
methods  to  hold  present  dealers  in  line,  inventing  new 
tactics  for  their  salesmen  to  use  in  their  fight  for  pros- 
pects. 

"There's  a  delegation  here  from  a  New  York  advertising 
agency,"  said  Emmett  one  day;  "they're  trying  to  land 
our  account ;  I  want  you  to  hear  their  solicitation." 

It  was  Fielding's  first  glimpse  of  a  group  of  glib  adver- 
tising men  displaying  their  bag  of  tricks  in  an  effort  to 
secure  an  attractive  contract.  A  pompous  veteran  led 
off  with  a  speech  on  the  achievements  of  his  organization, 
its  prestige,  clients,  and  record  of  results.  A  solemn 
copy  man  delivered  a  discourse  on  the  quality  of  their 
writers.  A  lean-faced  solicitor  produced  a  portfolio  of 
exhibits  intended  to  illustrate  their  method  of  planting  a 


GOLD   SHOD  93 

product  in  a  position  of  so-called  dominance.  Fielding 
was  a  silent,  thoughtful  listener. 

"How  does  this  crowd  strike  you  ?"  asked  Emmett  after 
the  conference. 

"They're  very  entertaining.  I've  learned  a  lot  about 
advertising." 

"There's  another  bunch  coming  to-morrow." 

Again  Fielding  Glinden  sat  in  on  the  session,  hearing 
but  little  that  was  new;  it  was  mainly  a  rehash  of  what 
the  others  had  set  forth.  Six  more  agencies  had  their 
say  during  the  following  week.  Some  came  with  elaborate 
presentations  and  copy  campaigns.  Their  spell-binders 
talked  service,  quality,  dominance,  and  business  insurance. 
Emmett,  Glinden,  and  Bessick,  the  advertising  manager, 
listened  patiently. 

"Now  what  do  you  think?"  demanded  Emmett. 

"None  of  them  have  proved  to  us  that  they  can  sell 
next  year's  production  of  Bennett  cars,"  said  Fielding. 

"That  can't  be  done." 

"Why  not?" 

"All  we  know  is  that  we've  got  to  advertise.  It  builds 
up  the  good  name  of  a  product,  but  it  doesn't  often  close 
sales  on  a  product  like  ours.  We're  after  the  best  agency 
service  we  can  find,  and  the  rest  is  in  the  lap  of  the  gods." 

"Not  necessarily,"  said  Fielding.  "That's  too  one- 
sided. These  fellows  have  absolute  assurance  in  advance 
that  they're  going  to  get  a  definite  sum  per  year  in  com- 
missions for  handling  our  advertising.  Yet  we  have  no 
assurance  that  they're  going  to  sell  cars  for  us." 

"It  can't  be  given,"  said  Emmett  impatiently. 

"Yes  it  can." 

"How?" 

"By  making  the  agency  that  gets  our  account,  agree 
to  sell  a  fixed  number  of  cars  for  us  each  year." 

"The  idea  is  ingenious  but  not  unique,"  replied  Emmett 
drily.  "Lots  of  advertisers  put  that  in  their  contracts." 

Glinden  was  disconcerted  but  not  floored. 

The  next  evening  he  called  on  Beth,  and  talked  to  her 


94  GOLD   SHOD 

about  it.  Beth  knew  little  about  advertising  methods, 
but  began  asking  questions  that  delighted  Fielding  with 
their  directness  and  grasp. 

"Some  of  these  agency  heads  must  have  a  large  ac- 
quaintance among  business  men,"  she  said. 

"Some  of  them  have  as  many  as  fifty  to  a  hundred 
clients  whose  advertising  they  handle,"  rejoined  Fielding. 

"In  addition  to  their  clients,  they  must  have  a  pretty 
big  general  acquaintance." 

"Enormous.     They  are  professional  hand-shakers." 

"Why  can't  the  Bennett  Company  give  its  account  to 
the  agency  whose  president  will  personally  obligate  him- 
self to  sell  the  largest  number  of  Bennett  cars  to  his 
friends  ?" 

"You  mean  in  addition  to  the  cars  the  advertising  itself 
would  sell?" 

"Exactly." 

Fielding  was  impressed  by  the  straight  thinking  of 
Beth's  proposal. 

"I'll  put  it  up  to  Emmett.  I'll  tell  him  you  made  the 
suggestion,"  he  returned. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  do  that.  A  woman  isn't  supposed  to 
know  much  about  business.  I'm  just  an  outsider.  Be- 
sides, we've  worked  it  out  together." 

Glinden  promptly  suggested  the  idea  to  Emmett. 

"It's  worth  trying,"  replied  Emmett  with  undisguised 
interest.  "I'll  talk  to  Bessick  about  it.  If  we  can  get 
these  brigands  to  bid  against  each  other  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised  if  we  could  make  one  of  them  guarantee  to  sell 
two  or  three  hundred  cars.  It  will  make  them  get  up  and 
dust.  I  can't  see  any  objection  to  your  plan.  If  you 
can  spring  ideas  like  this,  you'll  never  have  to  worry  about 
a  job." 

A  week  later  there  was  much  fervent  cursing  in  agency 
circles. 

In  another  fortnight,  a  telegram  arrived  from  an 
agency  head  in  Chicago,  binding  himself  personally,  on 
penalty  of  losing  the  Bennett  account  three  months  from 


GOLD   SHOD  95 

date,  to  secure  orders  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  Bennett 
cars.  He  was  the  highest  bidder  and  secured  the  ac- 
count. 

Fielding  recounted  to  Beth  the  outcome  of  her  sug- 
gestion. 

"I  feel  hugely  indebted  to  you,"  he  said.  "This  is  a 
fine  feather  in  my  cap.  But  it  isn't  fair  of  me  to  pretend 
that  the  idea  originated  with  me." 

She  looked  at  him  fondly.  "Do  you  know,  men  are  like 
a  lot  of  boys  playing  marbles.  Some  one  comes  along 
with  a  new  shiny  marble,  and  immediately  they  all  crowd 
around  and  want  to  play  with  him.  If  you  want  to  get 
on  in  business,  you  must  roll  new  kinds  of  marbles  into 
the  ring." 

The  last  thing  on  earth  that  Fielding  had  aspired  to  in 
his  youthful  dreams  was  the  kind  of  life  he  was  now  lead- 
ing. He  had  recoiled  from  the  idea  of  selling  anything, 
yet  here  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  most  furious  selling 
effort  ever  developed  in  American  industries,  and  was 
acquitting  himself  with  distinction.  The  fetters  of  a 
factory  had  killed  his  father;  but  Fielding  grew  strong 
in  his  chains.  He  traveled  for  weeks  at  a  time,  cultivating 
dealers,  adjusting  their  complaints,  removing  their 
grievances,  harnessing  them  together  into  closer  team- 
work with  the  factory.  He  drank  with  them  at  their 
clubs  and  at  bars,  listened  to  their  stories,  visited  with 
their  families. 

He  did  not  like  the  work.  But  it  fascinated  him  be- 
cause he  was  making  a  success  of  it.  It  was  interesting 
to  get  a  defiant  dealer  to  agree  with  him.  He  soon  de- 
veloped the  knack  of  knowing  how  to  talk  to  all  sorts 
of  men. 

"I  wish  we  had  more  chaps  like  that  man  Glinden,"  said 
Bennett  one  day  to  Wayland  Emmett.  "He's  got  an  easy, 
confidence-inspiring  way  about  him.  Our  dealers  all  like 
him.  He's  got  the  drive  of  a  bullet,  but  he's  level-headed. 
Give  him  more  money.  Keep  him  satisfied." 


96  GOLD   SHOD 

Fielding  had  now  been  with  the  company  for  nearly 
three  years.  He  was  earning  five  thousand  dollars  a  year, 
drove  a  Bennett  touring  car,  and  lived  in  bachelor  apart- 
ments on  Jefferson  Avenue. 

He  had  discovered  the  real  Bennett  to  be  an  amazing 
composite  of  blandness  and  fiery  temper,  of  bursts  of 
generosity  and  headstrong  tyranny,  of  impatience  and 
farsighted  cunning,  of  ability  to  build  and  passion  to  dis- 
rupt. Of  the  original  organization  that  Fielding  had 
joined,  there  now  remained  only  Bennett,  Newendyke, 
and  Wayland  Emmett  of  the  executives.  Two  chief 
engineers  had  quit.  One  vice-president  had  leaped  out  of 
a  ten-story  window  of  a  Detroit  hotel  to  his  death  on 
the  sidewalk.  Another  had  started  a  company  of  his 
own.  A  third  had  been  expelled  like  a  school-boy  after  a 
row  with  Bennett.  Kram  had  run  himself  to  pieces  after 
women.  The  new  vice-president  was  a  fawning,  efficient 
little  fellow,  the  son  of  a  Toledo  saloon-keeper.  Adver- 
tising managers  had  come  and  gone  like  streaks.  An 
angry  agency  head  had  come  to  Detroit  with  his  lawyer 
and  attached  the  whole  plant  to  recover  damages  for  a 
cancelled  contract. 

One  year  the  Bennett  car  was  an  excellent  product; 
the  next  year  the  high-speed  engine  beat  itself  to  pieces 
and  a  hundred  dealers  quit  in  disgust;  the  present  year's 
car  was  again  a  sound  piece  of  machinery.  During  the 
year  of  the  bad  engine,  Fielding's  good  work  among  the 
dealers  had  delighted  Bennett  so  that  he  presented  Field- 
ing with  a  block  of  the  Company's  stock. 

Fielding  had  seen  much  of  Beth  Early  during  this  time. 
Her  steadying  influence  had  kept  him  moving  forward  at 
times  when  he  felt  an  impulse  to  rush  screaming  out  of 
the  tense  organization  and  turn  his  back  forever  upon  the 
straining  life  of  this  business.  Beth  had  watched  his 
advancement  with  satisfaction.  Her  mother  had  chirped 
delightedly  about  it.  Fielding  had  grown  to  be  a  familiar 
figure  about  their  home.  His  car  swung  often  into  their 
street.  But  the  date  of  their  marriage  still  remained  un- 


GOLD   SHOD  97 

determined.  This  opened  sinister  doors  of  desire,  and  led 
to  occasional  brief,  impetuous  intrigues.  He  found  him- 
self hotly  attracted  to  certain  women  because  they  were 
primarily  fine  young  animals.  These  desires 'would  burst 
suddenly  into  flame,  rage  briefly,  and  then  go  out.  They 
did  not  usually  require  a  high  degree  of  culture,  refine- 
ment, or  mentality  in  a  woman.  Social  background  acted 
as  an  inhibitive  force.  But  he  confined  most  of  his  furtive 
affairs  to  single  episodes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  damp  sidewalks  had  a  look  of  spring.  The 
January  drizzle  soon  stopped,  leaving  a  melting 
challenge  in  the  air.  Through  the  New  York  streets 
moved  faint  breezes  borrowed  from  the  Gulf  Stream, 
adding  a  salty  fragrance  to  the  smell  of  gasoline  that 
poured  from  the  exhausts  of  innumerable  motors.  The 
streets  were  banked  with  beaming  cliffs  of  lights.  A 
billion  electric  globes  blossomed  in  theater-entrances, 
shops,  and  gargantuan  signs — vertical  acres  of  amber, 
rivers  of  blue,  gulleys  of  green,  and  ridges  of  rose.  At 
the  base  of  these  glowing  cliffs  and  hollows  were  yellow 
lights  moving  forward  in  pairs  and  ruby  lights  receding 
singly — the  lights  of  the  cars. 

The  titles  of  plays  and  names  of  players  shone  in  points 
of  fire  along  Broadway  and  its  tributaries,  looming  in 
crests  of  romance  above  the  levels  of  reality.  Into  the 
doors  of  the  theaters  had  streamed  the  nightly  crowds, 
seeking  revelations  of  themselves,  seeking  to  forget  them- 
selves in  dramatic  flashes  from  other  lives. 

Long  before  the  final  curtain  of  one  of  the  perform- 
ances, Fielding  Glinden  left  the  theater.  The  romantic 
comedy  had  made  him  painfully  aware  of  abandoned 
tendencies,  of  brave  impulses  left  unpursued.  Plays  often 
affected  him  thus,  disclosing  debts  to  himself  that  re- 
mained unpaid.  The  mild  spring-like  air  added  to  his 
restlessness  and  discontent,  carried  him  back  to  moments 
in  past  springs  when  he  had  taken  account  of  himself 
and  always  found  himself  wanting. 

The  elasticity  of  twenty-eight  was  in  his  stride.  In  his 
gray  eyes  was  a  look  of  troubled  questioning  and  inde- 
cision. He  was  wishing  to  God  that  he  had  not  gone  to 
the  theater  to-night,  or  else  that  he  had  not  gone  alone. 

98 


GOLD   SHOD  99 

A  companion  to  talk  to  might  have  kept  these  unwelcome 
impulses  from  leaping  at  him  out  of  the  ambush  of  sup- 
pression. 

New  York  was  vastly  seductive  to  him  to-night.  The 
streets  seemed  charged  with  the  consolidated  desires  of 
their  crowds.  The  loves  and  hates  and  quests  of  its 
multitudes  streamed  through  him  in  a  rousing  rhythm. 
Its  bouquets  of  lights  floated  before  him  like  rekindled 
apparitions  of  longings  that  he  had  thrust  away  from 
him,  and  forgotten  reveries  revived.  He  felt  as  he  had 
felt  before  pledging  himself  to  marry  Beth  Early. 

An  entirely  different  life  was  calling  out  to  him  in  dis- 
turbing cadences.  He  cast  searching  backward  glances 
into  his  life ;  it  seemed  that  he  had  always  been  on  the 
verge  of  important  decisions  and  on  the  point  of  flank 
movements  that  would  have  carried  him  into  quiet  worlds 
of  reflection,  into  longed-for  quests,  but  he  had  never 
quite  been  ready  to  heed  the  inward  word  or  to  embark 
upon  the  voyage. 

He  wondered  if  even  his  persistent  thirst  for  sexual 
adventure  was  not  a  symbol  of  the  hunger  of  a  spirit 
walled  in  and  repressed.  He  remembered  feeling  cast 
down  rather  than  elated  when  promotion  had  carried  him 
deeper  into  the  life  of  the  factory ;  he  was  accomplishing 
what  he  did  not  want  and  was  moving  in  directions  foreign 
to  the  insistent  voices  that  spoke  to  him  and  sang.  To- 
night their  faintness  gathered  strength  and  magic.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  like  a  harp  that  might  be  played  if  he  could 
only  set  himself  free. 

He  realized  with  a  startled  sense  of  morbid  humiliation 
that  he  had  become  a  hoop  in  Beth's  hands,  rolling  in  the 
single  direction  of  her  desire;  he  was  no  longer  himself. 
It  was  unlike  him  to  be  a  shrewd  executive,  driving  him- 
self and  his  subordinates,  courting  the  favor  of  his  su- 
periors, jamming  a  wedge  into  the  heart  of  competition. 
He  sat  at  that  desk  because  a  woman  wanted  him  to ;  he 
was  living  her  life  at  that  desk,  not  his  own. 

Many  times  during  the  week's  automobile  show,  he  had 


100  GOLD    SHOD 

felt  lost  and  out  of  place  at  Grand  Central  Palace,  with 
its  bazaar  of  glistening  exhibits,  its  displays  of  new  makes 
of  cars  and  accessories,  the  swarms  of  dealers,  sales  con- 
ferences, and  watchful  strategies.  He  was  glad  the  thing 
was  over  for  another  year.  He  hoped  he  would  never 
have  to  attend  it  again.  He  was  sick  of  these  crowds  of 
automobile  men,  this  handshaking,  this  boasting  and 
bragging,  this  incessant  enterprise. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  ought  to  be  hunting  other 
streets  and  abodes — places  more  plain  and  friendly  than 
his  imposing  hotel,  places  of  books  and  poets.  Thoughts 
of  his  old  scrapbooks  came  back  to  him,  of  the  wise  and 
kindly  faces  that  filled  them.  He  was  comparing  those 
remembered  faces  with  those  of  the  men  who  surrounded 
him  in  business — crafty,  willful  faces ;  hard,  solemn  coun- 
tenances; puffy  faces  of  prospering  distributors  and 
dealers. 

Was  it  right  to  let  Beth  usurp  his  strength  and  youth 
and  make  him  dart  forward  like  a  hoop  every  time  she 
tapped?  A  volley  of  longings  besieged  him.  His  face 
grew  stern  with  daring  and  desire.  His  body  glowed. 

He  was  seized  by  an  almost  over-powering  impulse  to 
flee  from  this  life  and  this  woman  and  their  grasps.  Other 
voices  whispered  and  sang  and  called  to  him,  voices  of 
gold  and  velvet.  His  restlessness  expanded  into  a  great 
distraction.  Worlds  of  beauty  hovered  near  him,  com- 
pounded of  remembered  harmonies  improvised  by  the  fore- 
father and  of  blinding  yearnings  of  his  own.  The 
elasticity  of  his  youth  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  the  mood, 
as  if  developing  the  sudden  power  to  project  him  bodily 
into  these  worlds  that  called.  His  brain  burned  with  a 
glorious  fever. 

He  had  reached  the  lobby  of  the  hotel.  Habit  took 
him  to  the  desk  for  his  mail. 

A  telegram  was  handed  him.     It  ran: 

THINGS   IN   MESS    HERE       CAN    WE    BE    MARRIED    AT 
ONCE     WIRE     ANSWER.     YOURS     ENDLESSLY     BETH 


GOLD   SHOD  101 

As  Fielding  read  the  terse  intelligence,  his  daring  and 
desire  ebbed  away.  Detroit  loomed  once  more  like  an 
ambush  surrounding  him,  cutting  off  flight  or  retreat. 
He  had  gone  too  far.  It  was  too  late  to  change  his  course. 

He  crossed  to  the  telegraph  desk  and  sent  the  following 
reply: 

ARRIVE     DETROIT     THREE     TO-MORROW     AFTERNOON 
BE  READY  FOR  CEREMONY       A  WORLD  OF  LOVE 

FIELDING 

During  Fielding's  return  to  Detroit,  he  felt  that  what 
was  about  to  happen  was  inevitable;  he  was  in  the  grasp 
of  circumstances  stronger  than  any  will  or  impulse  of  his 
own.  It  seemed  ages  ago  since  he  had  stood  poised  upon 
the  verge  of  other  pursuits  and  other  worlds  at  the  mo- 
ment when  the  summons  from  Beth  had  reached  him. 

He  wondered  what  had  happened  to  Beth  to  cause  this 
abrupt  and  peremptory  call.  It  was  unlike  her  to  send 
for  him  like  this.  But  he  had  seen  enough  of  her  mother 
and  of  Ellis,  her  step-father,  to  know  that  they  had  their 
periods  of  wrangling. 

On  his  arrival  in  Detroit,  Fielding  drove  at  once  to  the 
Pontchartrain  through  streets  gray  with  slush.  Thick 
mists  blew  off  the  river.  He  went  to  a  telephone  booth 
and  called  up  Beth. 

"Hello,  Fielding,"  began  Beth  with  relief.  "I'm  so  glad 
you  came." 

"What's  been  the  trouble?" 

"I'll  tell  \Tou  when  I  see  you." 

"I'll  run  right  up  to  the  house." 

"No,  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't,"  she  replied.  "I'll  go 
down-town." 

"Then  I'll  send  my  car  for  you." 

"If  you  please,  dear." 

"At  what  time?" 

"At  once,  please. " 

Beth    reached    the   hotel,    apparently    calm,    but   her 


102  GOLD    SHOD 

grayish-blue  eyes  had  trouble  in  them.  She  wore  a  new- 
tailored  suit  of  blue,  trimmed  with  squirrel,  and  a  close- 
fitting  hat  to  match.  She  was  nearly  as  tall  as  Fielding. 
Looking  at  the  pale  beauty  of  her  face,  Fielding  recalled 
almost  with  a  sense  of  shock  that  beneath  these  sensitive, 
exquisite  surfaces  lay  coiled  calculating  ambitions  that 
would  rather  beat  themselves  to  pieces  than  yield  to 
opposition. 

"I  never  saw  you  look  so  beautiful,'*  said  Fielding. 

"Thanks." 

"One  would  take  you  for  a  bride,"  he  added,  kissing  her. 

The  wintry  touch  of  her  lips,  and  the  faint  April 
fragrance  of  her  body  revived  his  trepidation  at  their 
first  meeting. 

"I  hated  to  send  for  you  in  this  unceremonious  way," 
Beth  said. 

"I'm  glad  you  did.     What  happened  at  home?" 

"Mother  is  having  one  of  her  periodic  emotional  out- 
bursts. She  can't  make  up  her  mind  whether  to  remain 
with  Mr.  Ellis,  or  divorce  him." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"It's  largely  mother's  fault.  She  is  terribly  touchy, 
hysterical,  and  unreasonable.  She  ought  to  control  her- 
self. She  isn't  very  well.  But  I  can't  stand  it  to  live 
in  that  atmosphere.  I  wish  to  Heaven  her  husband  had 
character  enough  to  manage  her.  I'm  sick  and  tired. 
I  simply  had  to  wire  you." 

"You  were  quite  right.  We  have  waited  too  long  al- 
ready. Come,  we'll  get  a  license,"  said  Fielding  decisively. 

"I'm  ready,"  said  Beth. 

It  was  a  shock  to  her  to  enter  marriage  like  this. 
She  had  dreamed  of  more  formal,  unhurried  preparations, 
a  carefully  selected  trousseau,  a  church  wedding.  The 
reality  was  a  jolt  to  her  expectations. 

It  gave  Fielding  pleasure  to  reflect  that  he  was  doing 
Beth  a  service  by  now  marrying  her  quickly.  Hitherto 
it  had  seemed  that  she  was  doing  more  for  him  than  he  for 
her. 


GOLD    SHOD  103 

After  obtaining  their  license,  they  went  to  a  jeweler 
and  selected  a  narrow  circle  of  diamonds,  imbedded  in 
platinum.  And  an  hour  later,  in  the  rectory  of  the  ca- 
thedral, in  the  presence  of  Wayland  Emmett  and  his  wife, 
they  were  married. 

"Do  you  think  we've  made  a  mistake?"  demanded  Beth 
when  they  were  driving  away. 

"We  certainly  have  not,"  said  Fielding  with  decision. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  known  her  to  look  to 
him  for  decisions  and  support. 

They  went  to  Atlantic  City,  expecting  to  spend  their 
honeymoon  there.  But  the  seashore  was  somber  at  that 
time  of  year.  The  roll  of  the  smoky  waves  was  depress- 
ing. The  sea  brought  back  to  Beth  the  impact  of  memories 
of  her  father's  vanquished  hopes  and  beaten  efforts.  This 
ocean  that  rolled  before  her  had  been  the  goal  of  his  striv- 
ing:  his  ships  that  sailed  the  Great  Lakes  had  only 
whetted  his  hunger  to  build  ships  for  the  ocean.  He  had 
wanted  to  live  to  see  his  ships  encircle  the  whole  world. 
Over  his  charts,  and  atlases,  his  globes  and  models  of 
full-rigged  schooners,  Beth  had  pored  with  him  as  a 
little  girl. 

There  persisted  in  her  an  unwaning  impression  of  what 
ambitions,  horizons,  and  longings  for  achievement  had 
obsessed  Carter  Early.  She  comprehended  now  what  a 
solitary  figure  he  had  been,  how  remote  from  the  wife 
who  had  neither  cared  enough  nor  had  mental  stature 
enough  to  go  with  him  on  his  long  sea-ways  of  aspira- 
tion, and  what  a  comfort  she  herself  must  have  been  to 
him  both  in  the  days  of  his  rise  and  in  the  hours  of  his 
fall. 

"Thinking  of  your  father?"  asked  Fielding,  as  they 
stepped  briskly  along  the  Boardwalk. 

"Yes.      How  did  you  know?" 

"The  ocean." 

"A  hundred  times  he  must  have  traced  for  me  on  his 
charts  the  course  of  his  first  voyage  around  the  world 


104  GOLD   SHOD 

when  he  was  a  boy,"  said  Beth.  A  mystic  look  smoul- 
dered in  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  "Maybe  he's  sailing  his 
beloved  seas.  Do  you  believe  in  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"It's  possible." 

"Mother  never  understood  him,"  continued  Beth.  "She 
couldn't  understand  his  contempt  for  society.  She  was 
afraid  of  him — he  was  so  strong  and  hard." 

In  a  few  days  they  went  to  New  York  for  the  remain- 
der of  their  honeymoon.  New  York's  tremendous  vitality, 
its  impatient  go,  its  finish,  its  force  and  strength  and 
multitude  of  efforts  filled  Beth  with  enthusiasm.  Visions 
of  large  affairs  centering  in  impressive  offices  replaced 
her  visions  of  decks  and  roving  sails,  massive  funnels  and 
pilot  rooms,  shipyards  and  shipbuilders.  Hopes  for  her 
husband's  future  replaced  the  memories  of  her  father's 
failure. 

"Some  day  we  shall  live  in  New  York,"  said  Fielding. 

"We  must,"  Beth  replied. 

Fielding  looked  earnestly  at  his  wife ;  he  was  proud  of 
her  determination  to  share  in  great  deeds.  He  com- 
pared her  with  the  women  all  about  them,  the  showy  spend- 
thrifts of  the  hotels  and  the  Avenue,  and  counted  himself 
fortunate. 

At  the  theater,  at  the  opera,  Beth  continued  to  think 
of  New  York  in  terms  of  consolidations  of  large  activities. 
But  Fielding  thought  of  entirely  different  things  in  the 
presence  of  great  music  and  impressive  acting.  These 
carried  him  into  another  world.  They  brought  back  to 
him  the  whole  tantalizing  realm  in  which  lie  had  lived 
before  entering  the  world  of  motor  cars,  and  he  gave  way 
to  the  overwhelming  blandishments  of  art.  Held  in  the 
spell  of  symphonies,  he  was  carried  away  by  their  radiances 
of  sound.  He  was  ensnared  and  transfixed  by  fine  nuances. 
Luminous  allegros  ran  like  melting  fire  through  his  tis- 
sues. The  grasp  of  Beth's  influence  upon  him  loosened; 
he  became  Anton,  he  became  Ames;  he  felt  that  nothing 
on  earth  was  important  but  beauty. 

Once,  when  he  strode   through   West    Seventy-second 


GOLD   SHOD  105 

Street,  on  the  way  to  an  appointment,  he  was  arrested 
by  scales  and  arpeggios  rippling  from  the  windows  of 
studios  and  conservatories.  Suddenly  he  felt  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  own  people  sending  their  cries  to  gods  who 
were  also  his  gods.  Other  gods  appeared  cold  and  life- 
less. He  responded  electrically  to  the  language  that 
poured  from  these  windows.  It  made  him  recall  impulses 
that  had  peopled  his  dreams,  that  he  had  driven  into  hid- 
ing. Could  they  never  be  wholly  dismissed?  Would 
their  ghosts  never  cease  coming  back  to  him  like  lovely 
apparitions  to  woo  him? 

In  the  subway,  he  saw  young  women  with  music  rolls, 
others  engrossed  in  novels.  He  saw  an  actress  on  the  way 
to  a  rehearsal  memorizing  the  "sides"  of  her  part.  He 
observed  a  pale  young  fellow  with  a  bundle  of  manuscript 
under  his  arm,  perhaps  a  play  he  was  peddling.  A  young 
foreigner  clasped  his  violin  case.  Fielding  felt  incompar- 
rably  nearer  to  these  people  than  to  the  manufacturers  of 
automobiles  among  whom  he  moved. 

Another  time  when  Beth  stopped  for  a  fitting  at  a 
Fifth  Avenue  shop,  Fielding  wandered  into  an  art  shop 
nearby.  In  it  he  spent  a  memorable  half  hour,  admir- 
ing the  work  of  a  minor  painter.  The  subjects  were 
chiefly  landscapes,  placid  tonal  studies  of  woodland  glades, 
warm  meadows,  gray  lanes,  ancient  barns  wrapped  in  the 
pearly  glow  of  March  mornings.  There  was  nothing  in 
these  pictures  to  stop  the  crowds,  nothing  to  stimulate 
high  bids.  The  spectacular  harshness  of  blaring  mod- 
ernism was  wanting  in  their  unobtrusive  poetic  intent. 
Fielding  gathered  from  overhead  bits  of  conversation  be- 
tween the  dealer  and  a  shy  youth,  that  the  latter  had 
painted  these  things.  Fielding  swiftly  constructed  his 
supposed  background  of  the  artist — a  bare  studio  in  some 
old  building,  infrequent  sales,  meager  prices  when  a  few 
canvases  did  sell.  Fielding  envied  him. 

"What's  the  price  of  that  sunset?"  asked  Fielding,  in- 
dicating one  of  the  sketches. 

"Only  forty  dollars,"  responded  the  dealer. 


106  GOLD   SHOD 

"I'll  take  it." 

Upon  the  Glindens'  return  to  their  hotel,  the  sketch  had 
been  delivered.  Fielding  unwrapped  it. 

"I  have  acquired  a  little  object  of  art,"  he  said.  "What 
do  you  think  of  it?" 

Beth  surveyed  it  without  interest. 

"It's  well  drawn,"  she  remarked.  "But  it's  so  melan- 
choly. It  gives  me  the  blues.  Did  someone  wish  it  on 
you?" 

"No,  I  bought  it." 

"What  did  you  pay  for  it?" 

"Forty  dollars." 

"Forty  dollars!  I  suppose  some  starving  artist  has 
been  preying  upon  your  sympathies." 

"Not  at  all.  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  be  able  to  paint 
that." 

Beth  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  incredulous  eyes. 


CHAPTER  V 

DETROIT  had  a  peculiar  effect  upon  Beth  on  their 
return.     As  their  taxi  carried  them  away  from  the 
station,  past  the  wintry  ball  grounds,  orange-colored  trol- 
ley cars,  shabby  buildings,  gasoline  stations,  and  familiar 
sign-boards,  Fielding's  wife  grew  silent. 

A  furnished  apartment  had  been  placed  at  their  disposal 
by  an  officer  of  the  Bennett  Company  who  was  away  for 
a  month  with  his  family.  Breakfast  was  on  the  table 
a  few  minutes  after  they  entered. 

"This  is  great,"  said  Fielding.  "It  begins  to  look  like 
home  at  last." 

Beth,  attempting  to  smile,  burst  into  tears. 

"What's  the  matter?  Are  you  ill?"  exclaimed  Fielding, 
going  to  her  side. 

"Don't  be  cross.     I  can't  endure  it!" 

Fielding  stood  looking  at  her  in  bewilderment.  He 
could  not  understand  her  outburst,  did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  it,  nor  how  to  comfort  her.  He  sensed  some- 
thing hostile  toward  him  in  her  nature;  he  imagined  that 
prior  to  this,  she  had  been  playing  a  part,  and  that  this 
was  her  real  self.  More  than  once  he  had  suspected  that 
she  tolerated  him  only  for  the  sake  of  what  she  might 
make  of  him  in  his  business.  And  a  sense  of  sudden  re- 
sentment entered  him. 

"Is  it  painful  to  be  back  in  town?  Is  that  it?"  he 
asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  was  no  sense  in  being  in 
such  a  hurry.  We  practically  eloped,"  she  answered 
tremulously. 

"You  wanted  it  that  way." 

"I  knew  you'd  blame  me." 

107 


108  GOLD    SHOD 

"I'm  not  blaming  you.  For  heaven's  sake  don't  get 
that  into  your  head,  Beth.  I  think  it's  the  most  sensible 
thing  that  could  possibly  have  happened.  These  musical 
comedy  marriages  make  me  sick." 

Beth  crossed  to  the  window  and  stood  beside  the  frosty 
pane,  weeping. 

Fielding  looked  at  her  gravely,  his  features  sagging 
under  the  weight  of  his  depression. 

"I'm  sorry  I've  made  you  so  unhappy,"  he  said. 

"It's  nothing  you've  done."  She  saw  the  look  on  his 
face.  "Don't  feel  badly.  It  isn't  your  fault." 

In  his  dealings  with  Beth,  Fielding  had  always  been 
aware  of  a  restraint  that  he  did  not  feel  in  his  relations 
with  other  women.  She  did  not  stimulate  him  emotionally, 
did  not  invite  the  sort  of  banter  that  he  enjoyed.  And 
now,  more  than  ever,  he  was  at  a  loss  how  to  address  her. 

"It's  an  awful  strain  you've  been  through,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Getting  married  must  be  a  nightmare  to  a 
girl.  You'll  feel  better  when  we  begin  to  get  our  own 
things." 

"Don't  bother  about  me,"  she  said  drearily. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  measure  up  very  high  in  your  esti- 
mation," he  said.  "You're  superior  to  me.  It  would 
have  been  better  if  you  had  married  some  one  who  didn't 
have  his  way  to  make.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  had  foisted 
myself  upon  you." 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  returned  Beth,  trying  again 
to  smile. 

The  beginnings  of  Beth's  sex  life  had  been  a  shock  to 
her,  an  unromantic  disillusionment.  For  all  her  educa- 
tion and  her  modern  reading,  this  essence  of  marriage  was 
nothing  like  what  she  had  anticipated.  Her  amazing  ig- 
norance of  the  physical  facts  of  marriage  astounded 
Fielding.  He  had  approached  marriage  with  intuitive 
forebodings,  wishing  its  first  year  might  have  been  skipped. 
His  companionship  with  women  sexually  sophisticated  had 
left  him  with  no  desire  for  intimacy  with  women  unini- 
tiated. The  so-called  purity  of  women  had  never  enticed 


GOLD    SHOD  109 

him.  He  had  even  wished  that  Beth  might  have  come 
to  him  less  of  a  novice. 

What  followed  had  amply  justified  his  misgivings.  The 
factor  of  sex  had  become  a  barrier  between  them  instead 
of  a  bond.  Inhibition  began  its  work  in  Fielding,  and 
abstinence  had  largely  characterized  their  honeymoon. 
But  even  this  held  its  perils,  since  it  gave  Beth  the  idea 
that  he  did  not  love  her.  To-day's  hysterical  outburst 
was  one  of  its  results,  but  Fielding  did  not  know  enough 
about  women  to  perceive  this. 

"I  won't  leave  you  to-day,"  he  said.  "They  can  get 
along  without  me  at  the  factory." 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  objected  Beth.  "Finish  your  break- 
fast, and  go  on  to  work.  You've  got  too  much  to  accomp- 
lish. I'll  be  all  right.  Mother  and  I  are  going  shop- 
ping." 

This  absence  of  any  magnetism  of  sex  disturbed  Field- 
ing, for  he  had  relied  upon  marriage  to  restrain  his  es- 
tablished weakness  for  women. 

One  day,  while  he  was  making  a  purchase  at  the  cigar 
and  flower  stand  in  one  of  the  down-town  office  buildings, 
a  familiar  voice  greeted  him  from  across  the  counter. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time,  cutie?"  asked  the 
girl  behind  the  counter ;  and  then  he  recognized  her  as  the 
girl  of  the  salmon-hued  hat  he  had  met  at  the  Tuller. 

"Greetings,"  answered  Fielding,  aware  of  a  pleasant 
thrill  from  the  other's  soft  finger-tips  as  they  placed  his 
change  in  his  hand.  "I  lost  your  address  and  didn't 
know  where  to  look  for  you.  What's  your  telephone  num- 
ber?" 

She  told  him. 

"And  whom  shall  I  ask  for?" 

"Peg  Sheehan." 

"I'll  call  you  up  some  time,  Peggie,"  he  said.. 

"Well,  you'd  better!" 

Fielding  Glinden  entered  his  apartment  soberly. 


110  GOLD   SHOD 

"How  did  everything  go  at  the  office  to-day?"  asked 
Beth  anxiously. 

"Like  a  cyclone,"  he  answered. 

"What  happened?" 

"Bennett's  off  on  another  rampage.  Newendyke,  the 
general  manager,  told  Bennett  to  go  to  hell,  and  then 
resigned.  Emmett  was  discharged  and  expects  to  go  to 
Cleveland  with  that  new  motor  crowd  I  told  you  about. 
He  wants  me  to  go  with  him.  Would  you  go  to  Cleve- 
land?" 

Beth  shook  her  head. 

"They've  got  a  wad  of  money.  They're  going  to  build 
a  better  light  six  than  anything  now  on  the  market.  It's 
a  real  temptation." 

"What  would  it  mean  for  you?" 

"At  least  the  salary  I'm  getting  here.  I'd  continue 
as  Emmett's  first  assistant." 

"Have  you  no  ambition,  Fielding?  What's  the  idea  of 
this  assistant  business?" 

"Nobody  has  offered  me  the  presidency  of  any  large 
and  affluent  corporation,"  he  said  a  trifle  sullenly. 

"And  nobody  ever  will.  Presidencies  aren't  peddled 
about  that  way.  Do  you  think  people  ran  wildly  to  Ben- 
nett offering  him  the  presidency  of  a  company?" 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  they  did." 

"You  know  they  didn't." 

"On  the  other  hand,  I  am  not  exactly  in  a  position  to 
organize  a  company  of  my  own.  One  has  to  know  some- 
thing of  manufacturing.  And  it  requires  rather  large 
quantities  of  money  and  credit." 

"You  say  Newendyke  has  quit?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  couldn't  you  step  in  there  as  general  manager?" 

Fielding  laughed. 

"Is  there  anything  funny  about  it?"  asked  Beth. 

"You're  not  serious?" 

"Quite." 

"But   I   don't  know   anything   about   manufacturing. 


GOLD   SHOD  111 

The  man  who  holds  down  that  job  has  to  make  decisions 
on  all  kinds  of  subjects.  He's  got  to  know  how  to  handle 
men.  He's  got  to  have  a  reputation  and  a  record." 

"With  all  these  men  quitting,  Mr.  Bennett  probably 
doesn't  know  which  way  to  turn." 

"No  doubt." 

"What  he  needs  right  now  is  some  one  he  can  rely  on 
and  depend  upon.  He  likes  you.  He  likes  the  way  you 
do  things.  He  can't  do  any  more  than  turn  you  down. 
He  certainly  didn't  let  Newendyke  run  the  business  for 
him,  did  he?" 

"Hardly." 

"He  simply  expects  a  general  manager  to  carry  out 
his  own  methods  and  plans.  The  main  thing  is  to  find 
some  one  he  likes  and  trusts,"  argued  Beth. 

Fielding  had  known  that  Beth  was  ambitious,  that  her 
eyes  were  on  big  things.  But  he  was  unprepared  for  her 
quick  thinking  and  persuasive  reasoning,  in  this  instance. 

"You  are  ambitious,  aren't  you?"  he  said  admiringly. 

"Savagely  ambitious,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  metallic  gleam  in  her  eyes.  Her  placid 
beauty  made  a  singular  contrast  with  the  force  of  will 
behind  it. 

"You  really  want  me  to  talk  to  Bennett  ?" 

"More  than  I've  ever  wanted  anything  else  before." 

"But  it's  foolhardy.     He'd  snort." 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

"I  don't  want  to  make  an  ass  of  myself." 

"You  won't.  He'll  like  you  all  the  better  for  making 
the  effort." 

"I'll  talk  to  him  if  you  want  me  to." 

"You  will?"  she  said,  embracing  him. 

He  stood  holding  her  in  his  arms,  curiously  aware  that 
something  new  had  awakened  in  her. 

"You  love  me,  don't  you,  Fielding?"  she  asked. 

"Adore  you,"  he  said,  trying  to  feel  the  same  thrill 
he  had  felt  the  other  day  when  he  received  his  change 
from  Peggy's  finger-tips. 


112  GOLD   SHOD 

Bennett  was  in  a  formidable  mood  when  Fielding  en- 
tered his  office  the  next  morning.  He  barely  looked  up 
from  his  pile  of  mail. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  curtly. 

"I  didn't  come  in  here  to  say  good-by,"  returned 
Fielding  cheerfully. 

"All  right.  You  can't  hurt  my  feelings  by  beating  it 
without  saying  good-by." 

Bennett  resumed  his  reading,  ignoring  the  other's  pres- 
ence. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Fielding. 

"There's  not  a  damn  thing  to  talk  about." 

"Yes,  there  is." 

"Your  friend  Emmett  has  raised  hell  around  here." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"I'm  not.  Glad  to  be  rid  of  that  ingrate,"  said  Ben- 
nett. On  his  pink  face  was  a  look  of  boyish  petulance. 
His  lips  curled  derisively. 

"I  know  how  you  feel." 

"I  feel  like  letting  out  a  yell  of  relief  to  see  the  whole 
gang  of  you  get  out  of  here." 

"Don't  include  me." 

"Why  not?  Emmett  says  he's  taking  you  along  to 
Cleveland." 

"Emmett  doesn't  know  what  he's  talking  about.  I 
haven't  the  slightest  intention  of  going  to  Cleveland. 
Detroit's  good  enough  for  me.  And  the  Bennett  Motor 
Company  is  good  enough  for  me." 

"Oh,  is  that  so !"  growled  Bennett  ungraciously. 

"Mr.  Bennett,  you've  been  a  mighty  good  friend  of  mine. 
You've  got  what  these  other  fellows  haven't  got,  and 
you're  the  one  man  in  this  business  that  I  want  to  tie 
to." 

"Do  you  know  what  they're  saying  about  me?" 

"I  don't  care  what  they're  saying  about  you." 

"I've  had  it  said  to  me  for  years.  They've  told  me  to 
my  face,  not  once,  but  a  dozen  times,  that  I'm  not  on 
the  level,  that  I  say  one  thing  and  do  another,  that  I  run 


GOLD   SHOD  113 

wild,  that  I  can't  hold  good  men,  that  they  can't  get  me 
in  writing,  that  I'm  a  petty  egotist " 

"You  know  how  to  build  cars.  You  know  how  to  sell 
cars." 

"You're  damn  right  I  do,"  exclaimed  Bennett,  inhaling 
chestily. 

"That's  what  interests  me." 

"And  that's  all  that  interests  me.  They've  fought  me 
like  tigers — not  only  competition  on  the  outside,  but  my 
own  organization  on  the  inside.  The  hell  with  all  of  them ! 
I  build  cars  and  I  sell  cars.  And  I'll  live  to  spit  on  the 
graves  of  my  enemies." 

"Exactly." 

"A  cyclone  has  hit  this  place.  There's  just  one  shanty 
left  standing.  You're  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Fielding.  "But  there's  only  one 
way  that  I  want  to  stay  here.  I'll  stay  as  Mr.  Newen- 
dyke's  successor." 

Bennett  glared. 

"You'll  stay  as  what?"  he  shouted. 

"As  Newendyke's  successor.  Mr.  Bennett,  I  came  in 
here  three  years  ago  with  a  single  aim — to  get  just  as  near 
to  the  top  as  I  could.  Things  have  happened  faster  than 
I  thought  they  ever  would.  The  time  has  come  for  me 
to  do  some  talking.  I  want  to  be  your  general  manager." 

"You've  got  an  awful  nerve  to  say  that  to  me." 

"A  man's  got  to  have  an  awful  nerve  to  sit  at  a  desk 
like  that  under  you." 

"I  guess  you're  right." 

"It  takes  nerve,  courage,  and  the  ability  to  stand  up 
under  punishment  without  wincing,  whining,  or  weaken- 
ing." 

"I  punish  'em,"  said  Bennett. 

"That  suits  me.  Have  you  anybody  in  mind  for  New- 
endyke's job?" 

"Haven't  had  a  chance  to  think.  But  the  man  who 
sits  at  that  desk  is  going  to  know  more  about  manufac- 
turing than  I  do." 


114  GOLD   SHOD 

"No  man  who  knows  more  about  manufacturing  than 
you  do  would  come  in  here,"  retorted  Fielding.  "I  doubt 
whether  he  exists.  And  if  he  does  exist,  he  couldn't  work 
with  you." 

"Why  not?"       • 

"Because  you  know  exactly  what  you  want  to  do  and 
how  you  want  to  do  it.  The  only  possible  general  man- 
ager is  the  kind  who  believes  in  you,  respects  you,  and  is 
willing  and  able  to  go  right  along  with  you,  carry  out 
what  you  want,  get  action.  He's  got  to  be  able  to  grasp 
what  you're  driving  at  and  grasp  it  quick.  He's  got 
to  follow  through  fast  and  hard.  If  you  get  a  stranger 
in  here,  you've  got  to  educate  him,  curb  him,  kick  him 
into  submission.  It  would  be  a  job.  I  know  the  ins 
and  outs  of  the  selling  methods  here  like  a  book.  I've 
originated  more  of  them  than  you  have  any  idea  of.  I've 
put  in  the  whole  follow-up  division.  I've  been  poking 
around  in  the  service  department,  and  I  know  something 
about  that,  I've  got  a  service  scheme  that  will  delight 
every  dealer.  I've  talked  to  dealers  about  the  used  car 
situation  until  I  know  it  back  end  to.  I'm  working  out 
a  plan  now  that  will  make  every  used  car  on  the  road 
an  asset  to  us  instead  of  a  liability.  I've  forced  the  legal 
department  to  make  changes  in  our  warranty  clause  that 
have  saved  you  a  lot  of  money.  I've  been  burrowing  into 
this  thing  from  a  dozen  different  angles.  If  you  want 
a  general  manager  who  can  get  things  done  around  here, 
you'd  better  appoint  me.  What  do  you  say?" 

Bennett  shook  his  head.  "I  should  say  not,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Why  not?" 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"A  shrewd  business  man." 

"I  like  your  gall,"  said  Bennett  thoughtfully.  "Maybe 
what  you  say  about  yourself  is  true  and  maybe  it  isn't. 
But  you're  too  young.  I've  got  to  get  some  older  men  in 
here — men  who  can  command  some  respect." 

"You're  making  a  mistake,"  said  Fielding. 


GOLD   SHOD  115 

"I  don't  care  whether  I  am  or  not." 

Fielding  drove  thoughtfully  home  after  the  interview; 
he  was  glad  that  he  had  put  the  proposition  to  Bennett. 
He  felt  closer  to  Beth  as  a  result  of  the  effort,  and  he  felt 
subtly  changed;  he  felt  that  he  had  relinquished  some 
weakness  of  his  own,  had  assimilated  some  strength  of 
Beth's. 

Beth  greeted  him  expectantly. 

"Did  you  talk  to  Bennett?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,  I  went  after  him." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said :  'I  should  say  not.' " 

"Didn't  you  try  to  talk  him  into  it?" 

"I  tried  hard  to  sell  myself.  I  nearly  knocked  him  out 
of  his  chair." 

Fielding  recounted  what  had  been  said.  Beth's  eyes 
shone  as  she  listened;  this  was  the  kind  of  action  that 
stirred  and  excited  her. 

"You  did  exactly  right,"  she  said  with  satisfaction. 

"Still,  it  puts  me  in  a  sort  of  embarrassing  position. 
Having  told  Bennett  that  I'd  stay  with  him  only  as  gen- 
eral manager,  I  can't  very  gracefully  stay  as  anything 
else,  and  certainly  not  in  my  old  position,"  said  Fielding. 

"Well,  we're  not  going  to  Cleveland." 

"Then  what  do  you  suggest?" 

"Make  no  move  of  any  kind  for  a  while.  Just  stay 
where  you  are  and  go  right  along  with  your  work  as 
though  nothing  had  happened,"  counseled  Beth  reflectively. 

"But  I've  got  to  be  figuring  on  something  else." 

"Don't  make  any  move  right  now." 

"I  can't  let  Bennett  think  it  was  a  bluff.  He  never 
would  get  through  riding  me." 

Beth  gave  her  husband  a  penetrating  look.  Suddenly 
she  said: 

"Fielding,  for  God's  sake,  are  you  going  to  be  stub- 
born !" 

"Stubborn?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"It's  one  of  the  things  I  can't  stand." 


116  GOLD   SHOD 

A  week  passed,  and  no  successor  to  Emmett  or  Newen- 
dyke  had  been  appointed.  Upon  Fielding  piled  the  work 
of  the  sales  department;  he  assumed  the  responsibility  of 
initiative  and  decisions  in  his  department.  Bennett  did 
not  call  him  in,  and  Fielding  made  no  effort  to  obtain  an 
audience. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  second  week,  Bennett  sent  for 
Fielding.  The  old  disarming,  uncommunicative  look  was 
on  the  president's  face. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Bennett.  "Who's  been  running  the 
sales  department  for  the  last  two  weeks?'* 

"I  have." 

"Who  told  you  to  go  ahead  and  make  decisions?" 

"My  common  sense  told  me  to  go  ahead.  I'm  the  rank- 
ing head  of  the  department.  Every  decision  I've  made 
has  been  strictly  in  line  with  the  policies  of  this  company. 
Unless  I'm  in  doubt,  I  never  ask  some  one  else  to  decide 
for  me." 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  using  your  head.  I  hate  a  man 
who  runs  in  here  every  few  minutes  to  ask  me  what  to  do. 
I've  had  people  running  in  here  like  lunatics  for  the  last 
two  weeks  trying  to  find  out  what  the  hell  to  do.  I've 
been  keeping  an  eye  on  your  work.  You  seem  to  be  pretty 
good.  You  seem  to  know  how  to  keep  your  head.  I'm 
going  to  give  you  the  title  of  sales  manager  of  this 
company." 

Fielding  was  secretly  pleased,  but  strove  not  to  show 
it.  Instead,  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  had  everything  but  the  title  before  I  walked  into  your 
office,  Mr.  Bennett,"  he  said.  "The  title  isn't  anything 
to  me.  And  the  job  isn't  anything.  The  only  thing 
that  interests  me  is  the  general  managership  of  the  com- 
pany." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"I  can't  recede  from  that  position,"  said  Fielding. 

"And  I  can't  fall  for  it." 

"It  would  save  you  a  lot  of  money,  a  lot  of  experiment- 


GOLD   SHOD  117 

ing,  waste  of  time,  and  grief  to  appoint  me  general  man- 
ager," returned  Fielding. 

The  interview  was  over. 

That  afternoon  Bennett  issued  an  office  memorandum, 
notifying  his  organization  that  Fielding  Glindeu  was  ap- 
pointed sales  manager. 

"Bennett's  appointed  me  sales  manager,'*  Fielding 
told  Beth.  "It  wasn't  what  I  wanted.  I  want  to  be 
general  manager  or  nothing.  What  would  you  do?" 

"It's  one  step  anyway,"  said  Beth  reflectively.  "It 
shows  that  he  has  confidence  in  you.  Accept  the  appoint- 
ment." 

"But  it  gives  Bennett  the  upper  hand.  It  doesn't  leave 
me  much  of  a  leg  to  stand  on.  He  gets  his  way  and  I 
don't  get  mine." 

"Well,  let  him  know  that  you're  taking  this  position 
under  protest,"  continued  Beth.  "Give  him  •  to  under- 
stand that  you're  doing  this  as  a  favor  to  him." 

"That's  not  a  bad  idea." 

The  Ellises  called  that  evening  and  were  delighted  to 
hear  of  Fielding's  promotion,  and  fell  avidly  upon  the 
subject.  It  gave  them  something  to  get  their  minds  on, 
something  to  think  about  besides  their  ailments  and  mis- 
understandings. Ellis  rubbed  his  fat  little  hands  enthu- 
siastically. Beth's  mother  beamed  with  her  face  and 
beamed  with  her  heavy  rings.  She  looked  coyly  at  her 
son-in-law  and  said: 

"I'd  pity  you,  Fielding,  if  you  didn't  make  rapid 
progress.  Beth  has  notions  of  her  own  of  what  a  man 
ought  to  accomplish." 

"She  even  tried  to  get  some  steam  into  me,"  said  Ellis. 

"No  one  could  ever  pump  any  steam  into  you,"  said  his 
wife. 

"I'm  too  old  and  too  gay  a  dog  to  fall  for  this  modern 
efficiency." 

"You  are  far  too  gay  a  dog,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis  with  a 
pretense  of  tolerance. 


118  GOLD   SHOD 

''My  boy,"  continued  Ellis,  addressing  Fielding,  "take 
the  advice  of  an  older  man  and  don't  ever  let  yourself  get 
the  reputation  of  being  gay.  It's  a  mistake.  Marriage 
is  a  very  solemn  matter.  The  ideal  husband  is  an  un- 
smiling individual  who  ushers  his  wife  as  far  as  possible 
into  society,  but  who  discreetly  looks  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  don't  be  absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis.  "Field- 
ing will  think  I'm  an  old  shrew." 

"It  is  essential  that  a  husband  avoid  any  appearance  of 
evil,"  continued  Ellis.  "Evil  itself,  of  course,  is  unthink- 
able. It  is  the  appearance  of  evil  that  plays  havoc  with 
so  many  otherwise  placid  families." 

"To  hear  you  talk,  one  would  think  you  were  the  most 
perfect  of  men.  We  weren't  back  from  our  honeymoon  a 
fortnight,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  turning  to  Fielding,  "before 
he  was  caught  lunching  with  an  old  sweetheart." 

"It  was  an  unforgettable  occasion,"  replied  Ellis.  "My 
wife  refuses  to  let  me  forget  that  unfortunate  episode. 
Ever  since  I  have  been  an  object  of  suspicion.  I  am 
suspected  of  misdemeanors  when  I  am  utterly  and  dis- 
gustingly innocent.  This  habit  of  suspicion  seems  to  fill 
a  woman  with  joy  and  gladness.'* 

"What  an  idea  to  put  into  Beth's  head !"  retorted  Mrs. 
Ellis. 

"I  have  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  jealous,"  said 
Beth. 

"Your  time  hasn't  come  yet,"  said  her  mother.  "I 
pray  that  it  never  will." 

"Don't  let  them  alarm  you,"  said  Fielding  to  Beth. 

"If  anything  does  happen,  I  don't  want  to  know  it," 
she  replied  lightly. 

Her  mother  sighed  portentously.,  "That's  exactly  the 
way  I  used  to  feel." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  happened  in  Chicago.  Through  the  open  doors  and 
windows  of  the  imposing  hotel,  warm  June  breezes  were 
flowing.  At  half-past  ten  Fielding,  tired  out  after  a  day 
of  irritating  work  at  the  local  Bennett  branch,  entered 
the  foyer.  His  eye  fell  upon  a  young  woman  so  attrac- 
tive in  appearance  that  he  fairly  gasped.  As  he  stood 
staring  at  her  even  features  and  perfect  coloring,  his 
nerves  quivered  and  tightened. 

Presently  their  eyes  met,  and  he  saw  her  smile.  He 
cast  a  quick  look  behind  him,  but  saw  no  one,  and  realized 
that  the  signal  must  have  been  meant  for  him.  It  im- 
pinged upon  his  nerves  like  a  sparkling  hand,  making  him 
tingle. 

He  crossed  to  her  side. 

"I  couldn't  tell  at  first  whether  you  were  waiting  for 
me,  or  for  some  one  else,"  she  said. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,"  he  answered. 

They  went  to  the  dining  room  and  found  a  sequestered 
table.  He  sat  gazing  at  her ;  she  was  artistically  got  up ; 
she  seemed  to  have  culture;  he  found  her  utterly  charm- 
ing; she  was  unlike  any  woman  he  had  ever  found  ap- 
proachable in  this  informal  manner.  He  was  mystified  and 
delighted.  Like  a  brush  of  gold,  she  swept  his  mind 
free  of  all  thoughts  of  Beth,  of  his  business,  of  Detroit. 
He  forgot  the  past  and  the  future.  He  asked  nothing  of 
life  but  this  thirst-slaking  nearness  to  the  beauty  of  this 
woman. 

"Stopping  here?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Are  you  alone?" 

She  nodded. 

119 


120  GOLD   SHOD 

He  looked  at  her  white  young  hands,  at  the  astonishing 
clearness  of  her  skin,  and  said:  "You  can't  be  more 
than  twenty." 

"Twenty-three." 

"Is  it  possible?  I'm  glad  you're  not  as  young  as  I 
thought,"  he  returned,  thinking  of  the  dangerous  direc- 
tion into  which  they  were  rushing. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  a  child?'* 

"I  think  of  you  only  as  adorable  and  perfect." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  me,"  she  said  naively. 

Fielding  found  himself  wondering  whether  Beth  could 
have  set  a  trap  for  him.  He  had  heard  of  wives  doing 
that. 

"You  madden  me,"  he  said.  "If  I  thought  you  were 
only  flirting  with  me,  I'd " 

"You'd  what?" 

"I  might  wring  your  marvelous  neck." 

"Oh,  how  ferocious !"  she  laughed. 

"Are  you  free  this  evening?" 

"My  aunt  expects  me." 

"You  said  you  were  alone,"  said  Glinden. 

"I'm  stopping  with  my  aunt." 

"Telephone  her  that  you  have  run  on  to  some  one — 
some  school-girl  friend." 

"Not  now.     Some  other  time,  maybe,"  she  said. 

"I  shan't  be  in  town  more  than  a  few  days.  I've  got 
to  see  you  again.  When  can  I?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'll  see." 

"To-morrow?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  like  me,  don't  you  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  very  much,"  she  answered,  looking  at  him  steadily 
out  of  dark  eyes  that  seemed  incomparable  to  him  at  that 
agitated  moment. 

Fielding  ordered  a  taxi.  It  bore  them  south  in  Michi- 
gan Avenue,  through  the  humid  warmth  of  the  summer 
night. 

"Where  shall  I  tell  him  to  drive  to?"  he  asked. 


GOLD   SHOD  121 

"Down  Drexel  Avenue,"  she  said. 

Fielding  took  her  moist  hand  and  enveloped  it  in  his. 

"You're  the  most  intoxicating  creature  I  ever  knew," 
he  declared.  "I'd  rather  have  met  you  to-night  than  any 
one  else  in  the  world.  I  never  knew  before  that  it  was 
possible  for  any  one  to  affect  me  like  this." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that ;  it  scares  me." 

"Why,  because  you  don't  like  me?" 

"No,  because  I  do." 

"It's  fascinating  of  you  to  say  that.  Don't  be  afraid. 
I'm  not  a  common  roue." 

"I  know  you're  not." 

"I  wouldn't  look  twice  at  most  women.  But  I  could 
follow  you  about  like  a  slave.  You  enter  my  eyes  like 
magic  liquor.  Thank  God  I  didn't  meet  you  before;  if 
I  had,  this  couldn't  have  happened  to  me  to-night.  I've 
got  to  have  you." 

Fielding's  companion  closed  her  eyes  and  trembled. 

"Then  why  don't  you  take  me?"  she  asked. 

During  the  two  nights  and  the  day  that  followed 
Fielding  abandoned  everything,  neglected  everything  but 
this  amazing  companion.  He  made  no  effort  to  control 
or  arrest  the  forces  that  bore  him  on;  he  acted  without 
misgivings  or  regrets.  He  found  something  pagan  and 
splendid  in  their  spontaneous  union. 

"You're  not  going  to  feel  sorry  that  this  happened?" 
she  said  to  him  once,  finding  him  thoughtful. 

"I  couldn't  possibly  feel  sorry,  I  never  wanted  anything 
to  happen  more.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else,"  he 
replied. 

"Of  what?" 

"That  I  can't  give  you  up." 

"This  can't  go  on,"  she  answered. 

"Why  not?" 

"You  have  your  life  to  live.  I  have  mine.  You're 
married,  aren't  you?" 

"Are  you?" 


122  GOLD   SHOD 

"I've  been  married  ever  since  I  was  sixteen.  My  hus- 
band is  devoted  to  me.  He  has  no  idea  that  anything  like 
this  could  ever  possibly  happen." 

"You're  married?"  asked  Fielding  incredulously. 
"Who  is  your  husband?" 

"Let's  not  talk  about  him." 

"But  I  can't  let  you  go.  You're  asking  something 
that's  impossible.  No  woman  ever  affected  me  as  you 
have." 

"Sweet  of  you  to  say  that.  But  I  want  you  to  forget 
me." 

"I  never  can.    Tell  me  who  you  are?" 

"It  doesn't  matter." 

"Where  can  I  find  you  again?  Where  can  I  address 
you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  I  want  to  send  you  a  present — what  would  you 
like  to  have?" 

"Nothing  at  all." 

He  pleaded  with  her,  but  she  pressed  her  fragrant 
palm  to  his  lips  to  stop  him. 

"No,  you've  been  very  good  to  me.  I  think  you're 
charming,"  she  said. 

"You're  the  strangest  woman  I  ever  knew." 

"I  don't  understand  myself."  She  drew  close  to  him. 
"Please  don't  try  to  understand  me.  There  are  times 
when  I  can't  hold  myself  in  check.  And  there  are  times 
when  I  nearly  die  of  remorse.  Don't  think  of  me  any 
more.  Or  think  of  this  as  just  a  dream." 

"The  most  gorgeous  dream  I  ever  had."  he  said.  "But 
I'll  find  you  again." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said. 

For  months,  her  vital  image  floated  in  Fielding's 
memory,  the  optical  center  of  an  imperishable  experience. 
She  had  appeared  in  his  path  like  a  tropical  orchid. 
Visions  of  such  moments  as  those  with  her  had  gleamed 
through  his  imagination  during  his  walk  through  New 


GOLD   SHOD  123 

York's  wet  streets  that  night  of  Beth's  order  to  come  and 
marry  her. 

"What  a  wife  she  would  have  made  me,"  he  thought. 

He  did  not  know  that  the  same  secret  words  had  trav- 
eled through  the  mind  of  the  forefather,  who  also  had 
married  for  the  sake  of  a  career. 

On  Fielding's  next  trip  to  Chicago  he  sought  the  saml 
hotel,  and  found  the  same  chairs  in  which  he  and  his 
marvelous  companion  had  begun  their  acquaintance. 
The  memory  of  their  mating  rushed  back  to  him  with 
a  world  of  captivating  detail.  He  wondered  who  she  was 
and  where  she  was.  Would  he  ever  find  her  again?  The 
memory  of  what  had  happened  stormed  him  with  re- 
awakened desire. 

She  had  become  a  symbol  of  that  pagan  quest  for  beauty 
which  for  years  had  tormented  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BENNETT'S  face  was  pale  and  drawn.  Fielding  as- 
sumed that  another  storm  was  brewing. 

"Come  in.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  the  manufac- 
turer. 

Fielding  followed  him  into  the  executive  chamber. 

"How  are  you  feeling,  Mr.  Bennett?"  he  began. 

"Rotten.  I've  got  to  go  to  Johns  Hopkins  for  an 
operation." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  asked  Fielding  with  concern. 

Bennett  nodded. 

"I'll  be  off  the  job  for  the  best  part  of  a  month,  may- 
be longer.  I've  got  to  have  some  one  around  here  who 
can  take  the  bit  between  his  teeth  and  get  things  done. 
I'm  going  to  take  a  long  shot  on  you,  Glinden.  I  think 
you've  got  the  stuff  in  you.  I  like  your  dog-gone  self- 
confidence.  You're  too  damn  young,  but  I've  got  to 
make  a  quick  decision,  and  you're  it.  I've  gone  over  a 
number  of  different  men  in  my  mind,  and  I  keep  coming 
back  to  you.  I'm  going  to  appoint  you  general  mana- 
ger." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Mr.  Bennett.  You're 
not  going  to  regret  your  decision." 

"I  hope  not." 

"When  do  you  leave?" 

"To-night.  Now  about  salary.  I'll  have  you  put  on 
the  payroll  at  ten  thousand  a  year.  If  you  show  any 
form,  I'll  make  it  fifteen  thousand." 

As  Fielding  drove  homeward  through  the  September 
haze,  it  did  not  seem  possible  to  him  that  Bennett's  words 
could  have  opened  this  magnificent  door  to  him  and  Beth. 
Little  by  little,  he  began  to  comprehend  that  he  now  fig- 
ured among  the  big  fellows  of  the  automobile  industry. 

124 


GOLD    SHOD  125 

And  yet  it  seemed  only  a  day  or  two  ago  that  he  had 
arrived  in  Detroit  to  talk  to  Wayland  Emmett  about  a 
job.  He  remembered  how  strange,  complicated,  glitter- 
ing, and  remote  the  factory  had  seemed.  And  he  was  now 
the  general  manager  and  second  in  executive  command. 
He  felt  but  vaguely  different  to-day.  He  felt  no  bigger, 
stronger,  or  abler.  He  grew  suddenly  conscious  that  in 
the  back  of  his  mind  floated  the  old  impractical, 
unbusiness-like,  obstructing  and  interfering  sense  of 
beauty. 

"Bennett's  got  to  go  to  Johns  Hopkins  for  an  opera- 
tion," Fielding  told  Beth.  "He  appointed  me  general 
manager." 

"Oh,  Fielding!    How  splendid!    And  at  your  age!'* 

"Bennett  said  I  was  too  damn  young,  but  that  he  had  to 
make  a  quick  decision." 

"The  biggest  men  in  the  motor  car  business  are  young," 
said  Beth. 

"Certainly  they  are.  Bennett  himself  was  under  thirty 
when  he  organized  his  own  company.  How  patronizing 
these  fellows  become  when  once  they  get  some  power!" 

"Don't  let  him  patronize  you.  You  don't  have  to.  He's 
very  lucky  to  have  you  as  his  right-hand  man.  Did  he 
say  anything  about  salary?" 

"He  raised  me  to  ten  thousand." 

"Ten  thousand?    Is  that  all!" 

"If  I  make  good,  he  said  he'd  make  it  fifteen.  I  thought 
it  best  not  to  argue  the  subject  of  money  right  now." 

"Right  now  was  the  time  to.  You  might  just  as  well 
have  talked  him  into  making  it  fifteen  thousand  at  once. 
The  idea  of  his  daring  to  pay  his  general  manager  only 
ten  thousand !  It's  ridiculous.  You've  got  to  look  out  for 
your  own  interests  if  you  expect  to  get  what's  coming  to 
you.  What  were  you  thinking  of  ?" 

"The  man  is  sick,"  retorted  Fielding  impatiently.  "Un- 
der the  circumstances  it  would  have  been  brutal  to  haggle 
over  terms.  You  must  remember  that  it's  a  big  jump  for 
me  as  it  is." 


126  GOLD   SHOD 

"You've  got  to  be  brutal  in  business,"  said  Beth  sternly. 
"You've  got  to  be  hard.  You've  got  to  fight.  For 
heaven's  sake,  don't  let  them  get  the  idea  that  you're 
easy." 

Fielding  flushed  under  the  attack. 

"Don't  be  angry.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,"  she 
added. 

"I'm  glad  to  have  your  views.  But  you  understand,  of 
course,  that  I  can't  always  run  home  to  you  to  get  your 
ideas  every  time  I  have  to  make  a  decision." 

"You've  done  a  very  splendid  thing,"  she  answered. 
"I'm  proud  of  you.  There  is  no  longer  any  question  as  to 
whether  you  can  go  right  on  straight  to  the  top.  But  you 
need  just  a  little  steadying,  just  a  little  pushing.  Some- 
times I  think  there's  an  element  of  weakness  in  you  that 
needs  watching,  a  tendency  to  waver  and  let  others  have 
their  way,  instead  of  insisting  upon  yours.  When  I  see 
you  sit  and  moon  over  a  book  of  poetry,  it  worries  me. 
The  mood  of  a  picture  gets  into  you  at  times  and  seems 
to  affect  you  for  days.  At  a  symphony  concert,  you  don't 
seem  to  know  I'm  beside  you.  I  suppose  it's  your  sensi- 
tiveness. Do  you  remember  that  picture  you  bought 
when  we  were  in  New  York  on  our  honeymoon  ?" 

"Yes,  very  well.    You  jumped  on  me  for  buying  it." 

tflt  gave  me  a  shock.,  Foit  a  moment  it  made  me  wonder 
what  sort  of  a  man  I  had  married." 

"Why?    Because  I  picked  up  a  picture?" 

"No,  because  I  saw  how  peculiarly  you  were  wrapped 
up  in  it.  It  was  the  way  you  looked  at  it  and  handled  it." 

"I  don't  even  remember  what  became  of  it." 

"I  gave  it  away,"  said  Beth. 

"Oh,  you  did?" 

"I  didn't  want  it  about.  It  seemed  to  stand  for  some- 
thing in  you  that  I  resented." 

Fielding  directed  an  uncommunicative  look  at  Beth. 
All  this  had  rasped  him.  He  comprehended  anew  that  he 
and  his  wife  were  great  distances  apart.  He  sat  studying 
her  face  till  its  calmness  and  fine  breeding  appeared  to 


GOLD   SHOD  127 

recede  into  a  crafty  stubbornness.  He  noted  the  drooping 
of  one  of  her  eyelids  and  no  longer  found  it  charming; 
it  seemed  to  betray  a  designing  spirit. 

Bennett's  absence  from  the  factory  cleared  the  air, 
reduced  the  customary  tension,  and  suited  everybody.  He 
was  a  superb  salesman  but  an  awkward  executive  and  no 
leader  of  men. 

Fielding  now  occupied  the  large  office  directly  opposite 
Bennett's  "throne  room."  At  this  desk  had  sat  the  pom- 
pous Newendyke,  the  officious  little  false-alarm  from 
Toledo,  and  others  who  had  failed  to  measure  up  to  the 
requirements  of  the  post.  The  mahogany  surfaces  of  the 
room  had  reflected  a  multitude  of  worried  moods.  It 
was  here  that  one  of  Fielding's  predecessors  had  planned 
suicide.  None  of  them  had  been  properly  qualified  to 
sit  here.  Fielding  wondered  how  he  himself  was  going  to 
fare.  A  curious  luck,  a  strange  opportunism  had  landed 
him  here ;  he  recognized  that  he  was  no  better  fitted  to  sit 
in  this  commanding  chair  than  his  forerunners.  But  the 
taste  of  power  was  gratifying.  A  vast  curiosity  drew 
him  on  into  the  absorbing  adventure.  On  his  desk  was  a 
vase  of  flaming  roses,  sent  by  Beth. 

Fielding's  telephone  rang. 

"Miss  Sheehan  calling,"  said  the  operator. 

"Put  her  on,"  said  Fielding. 

"Congratulations,"  exclaimed  Peggie  Sheehan.  "I  saw 
the  good  news  about  you  in  the  Free  Press  this  morning. 
Fine  business !" 

"Thanks,"  said  Fielding,  thinking  of  Peggie's  lips,  red 
as  the  roses  Beth  had  sent  him. 

"When  are  you  coming  to  see  me  again?"  asked  the 
flower-stand  girl. 

"Pretty  soon." 

Bennett,  too  sick  and  worried  to  trust  himself  to  decide 
numerous  pending  measures  during  the  previous  fortnight, 
had  left  Fielding  a  heritage  of  perplexing  conditions  that 
required  action.  Fielding  at  once  adopted  the  policy  of 


128  GOLD   SHOD 

reaching  decisions  in  conference  instead  of  assuming  arbi- 
trary authority.  He  wanted  his  organization  with  him, 
not  against  him.  This  disarmed  and  placated  these  ex- 
ecutives who  had  resented  his  appointment  as  general 
manager. 

"The  king  has  temporarily  abdicated,"  said  Fielding 
to  his  department  heads.  "During  his  absence,  I  propose 
that  we  run  this  organization  as  a  sort  of  good-natured 
oligarchy  composed  of  the  men  now  in  this  room.  Mr. 
Bennett  has  at  times  tried  to  run  this  place  as  an  absolute 
monarchy,  and  it  didn't  always  work.  Suppose  we  try 
this  other  scheme  and  see  how  it  works.  I  don't  pretend 
to  know  it  all ;  I  need  you  men  a  good  deal  more  than  you 
need  me.'* 

Fielding  had  rolled  a  shining  new  marble  into  the  ring. 
It  pleased  and  flattered  his  associates. 

That  afternoon  Meyer,  the  head  of  the  purchasing  de- 
partment, strode  into  Glinden's  office  with  a  tragic  look 
on  his  pinched  face.  Despite  the  official  position  that  en- 
abled him  to  spend  large  sums  of  money,  he  never  seemed 
happy. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  demanded  Fielding. 

"This  tire  manufacturer,  Frake,  refuses  to  renew  his 
contract  with  us  at  the  old  figure.  He  announces  a 
four  per  cent  increase.  That  runs  into  a  smear  of 
money." 

"How  much?" 

"Close  on  to  half  a  million  dollars  on  our  year's  pro- 
duction of  cars." 

"This  Akron  outfit  is  taking  advantage  of  Mr.  Ben- 
nett's absence,"  said  Fielding. 

"That's  what  I  thought." 

"I'll  run  over  to  Akron  and  see  what  I  can  do,"  an- 
nounced Fielding. 

"How  are  you  going  at  him?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Isn't  there  a  fellow  in  town  here 
who  pulled  out  of  Frake's  plant  a  while  ago  and  is  organ- 
izing a  company  of  his  own?" 


GOLD   SHOD  129 

"Yes,  a  chap  named  Mulger.  Used  to  be  Frake's  pro- 
duction manager." 

"Good — I  want  to  see  him." 

At  seven  that  evening,  Fielding  and  Mulger  sat  down  to 
dinner  at  the  University  Club.  Mulger  was  glad  to  talk, 
since  his  grudges  against  Frake  were  numerous.  At  mid- 
night Fielding  was  still  asking  questions,  and  at  a  quarter 
of  one  he  boarded  a  train  for  Akron. 

At  ten  the  next  morning,  Glinden  sent  in  his  card  to 
Mr.  Frake,  president  of  one  of  Akron's  large  tire  manu- 
facturing concerns.  The  dusty  buildings  and  uninspired 
streets  of  Akron  depressed  him,  but  he  strove  to  keep  him- 
self buoyant  and  confident  for  the  interview.  He  had 
never  seen  Frake  before,  and  discovered  a  hard-looking 
little  individual  with  a  face  like  a  horse,  alert  but  sunken 
eyes  that  shone  brilliantly,  prominent  lips,  knuckly 
hands,  large  diamonds,  and  a  dressy  suit  of  expensive 
tweed. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  jolt  you've  handed  us,"  began 
Fielding. 

"It  is  always  painful  to  have  to  revise  our  prices  to 
old  friends,"  replied  Frake  hypocritically. 

"You  mentioned  increased  production  costs,"  con- 
tinued Fielding. 

"It's  largely  the  labor  situation.  The  radical  element 
is  growing  stronger  and  stronger.  We  don't  dare  let  it 
come  to  a  strike.  We've  advanced  our  wage-scale  twice 
in  the  last  year." 

"But  that  is  more  than  offset  by  reduced  costs  of  raw 
materials." 

"I  wish  you  were  right,"  said  Frake  rubbing  his  hands. 
"Sea  Island  cotton  is  advancing  rapidly.  So  is  grade  A 
plantation  rubber.  And  as  for  zinc  oxide — "  Frake  con- 
cluded with  an  upward  gesture  of  despair. 

"Quite  right,"  answered  Fielding.  "But  our  standard 
equipment  tires  contain  negligible  quantities  of  Sea  Is- 
land cotton,  or  grade  A  plantation  rubber,  or  zinc 
oxide," 


130  GOLD   SHOD 

"You're  mistaken/*  protested  the  tire  manufacturer. 
"I  take  it  you  haven't  been  on  the  job  very  long." 

"No,  not  very." 

"If  you  will  consult  the  terms  of  the  contract  under 
which  we  are  furnishing  your  company  tires,  you  will  dis- 
cover that  long  fiber  Sea  Island  cotton,  grade  A  planta- 
tion gum,  and  zinc  oxide  are  clearly  specified." 

"I  am  thoroughly  familiar  with  our  contract,"  replied 
Fielding.  "And  I  also  know  that  for  some  time  past  the 
tires  we've  been  getting  from  you  have  contained  little 
or  none  of  the  best  cotton  fiber ;  they  have  contained  an 
inferior  grade  of  Para  gum  and  considerable  quantities 
of  reclaimed  rubber;  and  as  for  zinc  oxide,  very  little  of 
that.  Instead  of  zinc  oxide,  you've  been  using  large 
quantities  of  lamp-black." 

"My  dear  boy,  some  one's  been  stringing  you." 

"It  is  hardly  conceivable  that  Mr.  Mulger,  who  was 
formerly  your  production  manager,  would  lie  to  me  about 
facts  as  vital  as  these,"  answered  Fielding  pleasantly. 

Frake  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start;  it  was  not 
lost  upon  Fielding;  but  the  latter  gave  no  sign  that  he 
realized  how  deep  his  thrust  had  penetrated. 

"I  realize,  of  course,"  continued  Fielding  genially,  "that 
the  tire  business  is  peculiar.  And  I  realize  that  a  tech- 
nical deviation  from  the  fixed  terms  of  a  contract,  while 
it  might  prove  difficult  to  explain  if  it  came  to  a  legal 
action,  might  have  more  or  less  general  practice  on  the 
part  of  rubber  manufacturers  to  point  to  for  precedent. 
Besides,  there  are  so  many  conditions  entering  into  the 
mileage  delivered  by  a  tire,  that  it  anight  be  pretty  hard 
to  demonstrate  the  relative  merits  in  action  of  given 
grades  of  raw  materials." 

"Do  you  mean  to  infer  that  we're  not  selling  you  a  good 
tire?"  demanded  Frake,  adopting  an  air  of  bluster. 

"Not  at  all.  We're  getting  a  good  tire.  And  even  a 
better-made  tire  can  buckle,  blister,  and  blow-out." 

"You're  damn  right  it  can,"  agreed  Frake,  hardly 
knowing  just  how  to  size  up  his  opponent.  "I've  seen 


GOLD   SHOD  131 

fabric  tires  go  twice  as  far  as  cords.  Then  again,  it  de- 
pends on  how  you  treat  a  tire.  No  tire  will  stand  up  long 
under  abuse." 

"You're  quite  right." 

"But  a  contract's  a  contract.  If  I  ever  caught  a  pro- 
duction manager  departing  one  iota  from  the  specifica- 
tions of  a  contract,  I'd  kick  him  for  a  goal." 

"I  imagine  that  would  be  your  disposition,"  said  Field- 
ing. 

"How  is  Mr.  Bennett?  I  haven't  seen  him  in  close 
on  to  a  year,"  said  Frake  changing  his  tone. 

"He's  a  sick  man." 

"You  don't  tell  me." 

"He's  about  to  undergo  a  serious  operation  at  Johns 
Hopkins.  He  went  to  Baltimore  less  than  a  week  ago." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Frake,  pretending  not  to 
have  known.  "In  view  of  what  you  say  about  Mr.  Ben- 
nett, it's  too  bad  we  raised  this  subject  of  price  revision. 
You  can  forget  it,"  he  added  abruptly* 


CHAPTER  VIH 

A  UTUMN  thickened  into  brownish  fogs,  a  symbol  of 
./"\  the  apprehensions  that  were  oppressing  Fielding. 
Sometimes  his  uneasiness  amounted  almost  to  physical 
nausea.  His  sense  of  nervous  weariness  was  not  accom- 
panied this  time  by  the  familiar  pang  of  desire  to  be  rid 
of  his  executive  duties ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  slipping ;  some 
intuition  seemed  to  be  issuing  some  warning  to  him.  The 
sense  of  power  that  had  been  accumulating  in  him  was 
now  disturbed;  the  security  of  his  position  seemed 
menaced.  Every  day  impressed  him  more  definitely  with 
the  fear  that  there  was  something  wrong  in  the  Bennett 
organization.  Bennett  himself  seemed  preoccupied  and 
changed.  Fielding  watched  him  closely  and  gave  him 
every  opportunity  to  confide,  but  Bennett  remained  silent. 

Fielding's  forebodings  proved  well-grounded,  as  he  dis- 
covered on  the  day  when  he  finally  elicited  the  truth  from 
Bennett. 

"Mr.  Bennett,"  he  began,  "there's  something  the  matter 
in  this  office.  What  is  it?  I  want  to  know." 

Bennett  looked  at  him  with  unsmiling  eyes  and  de- 
manded :  "Who's  been  talking  to  you  ?" 

"Nobody." 

"Then  what  do  you  know?" 

"All  I  know  is  that  you  look  as  if  something  had 
dropped  on  you.  You  haven't  acted  like  yourself  for  a 
week.  You've  got  something  on  your  mind.  I'd  like  to 
know  what  it  is,"  returned  Fielding  sympathetically. 

"Well,  you're  a  pretty  good  guesser." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"This  is  for  your  information  only,"  continued  Ben- 
nett. "I've  been  pretty  badly  in  hock  for  the  past  year. 

132 


GOLD    SHOD  133 

Some  of  my  investments  have  caved  in,  and  I  regret  to 
say  that  the  control  of  the  Bennett  Motor  Company  has 
passed  out  of  my  hands." 

"The  hell  you  say,"  gasped  Fielding. 

"I  still  own  something  over  forty  per  cent  of  the  stock, 
but  the  control  has  gone  to  the  North  American  Motors 
outfit.  They've  been  buying  in  some  of  the  stock  from 
sources  I  thought  wouldn't  let  go.  I  know  a  good  deal 
about  their  fancy  manipulating,  but  didn't  know  they  were 
laying  for  us.  They've  hogged  up  some  remarkably  fine 
properties." 

"This  is  rather  serious,"  answered  Fielding. 

"It  means  a  reorganization." 

" Where  do  you  come  in  under  the  reorganization?" 

"I  continue  as  president  of  the  company." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Fielding.  "And  where  do  I 
get  off?" 

"I'll  hold  on  to  you,  if  possible." 

"If  possible,"  repeated  Fielding. 

"No  one  can  say,  of  course,  what  may  happen  when 
we  reorganize.  Alexander  Dufresne,  president  of  North 
American  Motors,  may  let  us  pretty  much  alone.  He  and 
I  haven't  gone  into  that  yet  in  much  detail.  He's  a  head- 
strong fellow  and  an  arbitrary  cuss,  and  I  can  make  no 
promises  further  than  to  say  that  I'll  do  what  I  can  to 
protect  your  interests.  How  much  of  our  stock  have 
you  got?" 

"What  you  gave  me." 

"H-m,"  mused  Bennett.  *'I  wish  you  owned  more  of 
it." 

"Is  there  any  available?"  inquired  Fielding. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bennett  thoughtfully.  "I  don't 
dare  let  go  of  any  of  mine.  It  would  only  weaken  my  posi- 
tion. I  don't  believe  there's  a  share  that  could  be  bought." 

Fielding  left  the  factory  in  sullen  anger.  He  could  not 
understand  his  idiocy  in  having  ignored  the  financial 
background  of  the  company  and  getting  himself  into  this 
hole.  God  only  knew  what  was  going  to  happen  to  him 


134  GOLD    SHOD 

now.  He  hadn't  the  slightest  assurance  that  he  would 
not  be  shaken  out  of  his  connection  during  the  storms  of 
reorganization.  He  knew  what  reorganizations  were.  He 
knew  something  of  the  train  of  favorites  who  traveled 
with  Duf  resne.  What  an  ass  he  had  been  not  to  look  to  his 
financial  fences  and  get  hold  of  some  of  the  Bennett  stock 
while  there  was  a  chance  to  do  so. 

Fielding  knew  in  a  social  way  Frank  H.  Bester,  secre- 
tary of  the  Cadillac  Trust  Company  of  Detroit,  registrar 
of  Bennett  stock.  He  drove  to  the  bank,  and  by  a  stroke 
of  good  fortune,  found  Bester  at  his  desk.  Bester  had 
straw-colored  hair  that  grew  in  a  wide,  closely-clipped 
band  down  the  back  of  his  neck.  He  was  well  under  forty ; 
the  Detroit  custom  of  placing  younger  men  in  positions 
of  authority  had  already  invaded  the  more  conservative 
banking  circles.  He  had  a  ruddy  face  and  chesty  figure; 
he  golfed  well,  danced  well,  and  had  the  amiable  faculty 
of  making  customers  feel  good  about  coming  to  the  bank 
to  talk  to  him,  instead  of  feeling  as  if  they  were  entering  a 
jail. 

"Bester,  I'm  going  to  buy  some  Bennett  stock,"  began 
Fielding  abruptly. 

"Congratulations.  I  wish  I  could  afford  to  add  to  my 
own  modest  holdings  of  carefully  selected  securities. 
Who's  letting  go  of  Bennett?" 

"That's  what  I've  got  to  find  out.  I  thought  you  people 
might  be  able  to  tell  me  who  the  stockholders  are." 

"That's  easy,"  said  Bester,  ringing  for  a  clerk. 

"Mostly  owned  right  here  in  Detroit,  I  see,"  observed 
Fielding  examining  the  names. 

"Was,"  amended  Bester.  "This  and  that  and  that," 
he  continued,  indicating  various  blocks,  "have  been  taken 
over  by  Dufresne." 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  Fielding  looking  closely  at  the 
records.  "Is  Bennett  down  as  low  as  that?  Let  me  see — 
he  can't  be  holding  more  than  twenty-six  or  -seven  per 
cent  of  the  total." 

"That's  all." 


GOLD   SHOD  135 

"H-m." 

"He's  been  borrowing  to  the  limit  on  it,"  said  Bester 
lowering  his  voice. 

"Yes,  I  knew." 

"He  borrowed  heavily  on  it  from  this  fellow,"  continued 
the  banker,  indicating  one  of  the  names,  "who  happened 
to  be  one  of  the  whippers-in  for  Dufresne.  Bennett  had 
been  margining  some  of  that  Southwestern  Railroad  stuff, 
and  when  it  crumpled  up,  Dufresne's  man  stepped  in  and 
got  his.  Damn  shame." 

"Are  any  of  these  birds  likely  to  unload  any  of  their 
Bennett  for  the  right  figure?" 

"I  hardly  think  so.    Unless  it  were  Simon  Leffingwell." 

"Leffingwell?     What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"It's  only  a  hunch.  I  happen  to  know  that  he  is  buy- 
ing a  lot  of  U.  S.  and  Bethlehem  Steel,  also  some  Fruit. 
Apparently  he  knows  something.  You  might  be  able  to 
interest  him." 

"How  much  Bennett  has  he  got?" 

"Maybe  three  thousand  shares." 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Bester.  Will  you  do 
something  more  for  me?" 

"Gladly,  if  I  can." 

"I  would  appreciate  it  beyond  words  if  you  would  say 
nothing  to  anybody  else  about  the  possibility  of  Leffing- 
well's  being  approachable." 

"I'll  be  very  glad  to.  But  it's  only  my  hunch,  you 
know.  If  you  see  him,  you  won't  quote  me,  of  course." 

"Not  a  word." 

Fielding  left  the  bank  with  a  gluttonous  desire  to  get 
into  control  of  some  of  this  Bennett  stock.  Bennett  had 
lied  to  him  about  his  own  holdings,  and  this  only  sharpened 
Fielding's  awareness  of  personal  peril.  Bennett's  future 
with  the  company,  under  these  peculiar  conditions,  was 
anything  but  secure,  while  his  own  chances  at  this  moment, 
knowing  what  he  now  knew,  weren't  worth  five  cents.  He 
entered  his  car,  and  drove  slowly  through  the  snarl  of 
traffic.  He  was  examining  the  situation  craftily,  his  lips 


136  GOLD   SHOD 

and  teeth  slightly  apart,  as  if  figuring  just  how  to  bite 
into  it.  He  swung  past  Grand  Circus  Park,  stopped  his 
car  in  front  of  the  Empire  Building,  and  took  the  eleva- 
tor for  the  office  of  the  Leffingwell  Lumber  Company. 

Fielding  found  a  little  man  more  than  sixty  years  of 
age,  with  piercing  black  eyes,  tawny  skin,  a  missing  index 
finger,  and  short  gray  hair  that  stood  erect. 

"Well,  young  man,  what  do  you  want?"  Simon  Leffing- 
well demanded  with  a  suspicious  air. 

"I  want  to  buy  stock  of  the  Bennett  Motor  Company." 

"Mine  isn't  on  the  market.    Why  do  you  come  to  me?" 

"Because  your  holdings  can't  mean  very  much  to  you, 
and  because  they  would  mean  a  great  deal  to  me.  You 
are  a  large  capitalist,  Mr.  Leffingwell.  You  are  primarily 
and  solely  concerned  with  the  safety  of  your  principal  and 
a  comfortable  yield.  There  are  a  great  many  good  in- 
vestments that  would  suit  you  quite  as  well  as  Bennett 
Motor.  My  own  case  is  different.  I  am  general  manager 
of  the  Bennett  Company,  vitally  concerned  with  the  prop- 
erty and  its  development.  I  own  some  of  the  stock  and 
want  to  buy  some  of  yours." 

"It's  a  good  stock.    I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  sell.'* 

"There  are  plenty  of  good  stocks  that  you  can  surely 
see  no  objection  to  buying." 

"This  Dufresne  development  should  make  Bennett  stock 
worth  even  more  than  it  is  to-day,"  said  Leffingwell. 

Fielding  winced;  did  every  one  in  Detroit  know  about 
the  reorganization? 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  replied.  "An  absentee  ownership 
may  not  be  so  good.  These  people  are  financiers,  not 
manufacturers.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  the  reorganization 
is  a  good  thing." 

"Nonsense." 

"It  is  conceivable  that  the  automobile  industry  may 
get  a  jolt  one  of  these  days,"  pursued  Fielding.  "It  is  by 
no  means  as  fundamentally  sound  as,  for  example,  the 
lumber,  food  stuffs,  or  steel  industries." 

"Then  why  don't  you  get  out  of  it?" 


GOLD   SHOD  137 

"I  happen  to  be  committed  to  it.  And  as  long  as 
I'm  in  it,  I've  got  to  be  a  substantial  owner." 

"I  like  the  way  you  talk.  Yqu're  no  fool,  my  boy. 
What  would  you  be  willing  to  pay  for  some  of  this  stock?" 

"Par." 

"My  God!    What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"What  do  you  ask?" 

"A  hundred  and  five." 

"Make  it  a  hundred  and  three,"  proposed  Fielding. 

"I  wouldn't  sell  a  dollar's  worth  under  a  hundred 
and  five." 

"How  much  will  you  sell  me  at  one-o-five?" 

"Three  thousand  shares." 

"I'd  like  an  option  on  that  amount." 

"An  option?     How  long?" 

"A  week." 

The  lumberman  shook  his  head.  "You  can  have  three 
days." 

"All  right  and  thanks,"  said  Fielding,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "It  is  now  eleven-forty.  This  is  Tuesday.  You 
will  hear  from  me  by  Friday  morning  at  this  time." 

"Beth,  I  have  three  days  to  raise  three  hundred  and 
fifteen  thousand  dollars.  Have  you  any  idea  where  I  can 
get  it?"  began  Fielding,  and  tersely  outlined  what  had 
happened. 

"Now  you're  talking,"  answered  Beth  with  a  joyous 
look  lighting  her  eyes. 

"I  thought  this  would  interest  you." 

She  threw  her  arms  about  him. 

"It  won't  thrill  Bennett  to  hear  I've  got  hold  of  this 
amount  of  stock.  I'll  have  more  of  it  than  he.  Poor 
Bennett — it's  been  a  rough  blow  to  him." 

"But  if  you  can  control  more  stock  than  Mr.  Bennett 
has,  think  of  what  it  will  mean,"  said  Beth  fervently. 
"You'll  be  the  next  president  of  the  company." 

"No,  there  wouldn't  be  a  chance  for  anything  like  that." 

"It  would  be  bound  to  follow." 


138  GOLD   SHOD 

"I  hadn't  even  thought  of  any  such  possibility." 
"Then  you'd  better  think  of  it.    What  on  earth  do  you 
want  this  stock  for  anyway?" 
"To  safeguard  my  job." 
Beth  looked  at  him  pityingly. 

Fielding  interviewed  four  of  the  biggest  men  of  affairs 
he  knew  in  Detroit.  Three  of  them  were  amazed  at  his 
proposal,  and  politely  gave  him  to  understand  that  to 
make  such  a  loan  without  collateral  was  unthinkable.  The 
fourth  replied:  "My  dear  fellow,  I'm  flattered  to  death, 
but  if  I  had  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars,  I  would  retire 
from  business  and  kick  a  hole  in  the  sky." 

"Who  are  these  North  American  Motors  people?"  Field- 
ing asked  Bennett  later  in  the  day. 

Bennett  named  the  leading  men. 

"All  New  York  people?" 

"Mostly.  Several  Detroit  and  Akron  men,"  said  Ben- 
nett, enumerating  them.  There  was  a  sick  look  in  his 
tired  eyes. 

"It  seems  to  me  I've  heard  that  Frake  of  Akron  is  in 
on  it. 

"He'd  like  to  be,  but  he  hasn't  got  a  smell." 

Fielding  suddenly  recalled  his  interview  with  the  horsey- 
looking  tire  manufacturer,  and  re-examined  his  impression 
that  Frake  had  rather  admired  the  way  in  which  he  had 
blocked  the  attempt  to  raise  his  prices  to  the  Bennett 
Company.  His  search  for  a  backer  in  Detroit  looked 
hopeless.  If  Frake  wanted  to  get  in.  ... 

"By  the  way,  how  comfortable  is  Frake  financially?" 
Fielding  asked  Mulger,  Frake's  former  production  head. 

"He's  nearly  the  sole  owner  of  his  company." 

"Has  he  got  much  outside  of  that  ?" 

"A  lot.  Heavy  shareholder  in  half  a  dozen  or  more 
motor  companies,  and  he's  had  a  fist  in  two  or  three  big 
consolidations.  His  mind  runs  that  way." 

"I  suppose  he  runs  with  Duf  resne." 


GOLD    SHOD  139 

"No,  he  never  managed  to  get  his  nose  into  that  feed- 
bag- 

Fielding  laughed,  remembering  Frake's  horselike  face. 

"The  Dufresne  people  have  controlled  the  distribution 
of  their  stock  very  adroitly,"  continued  Mulger.  "Du- 
fresne himself  is  a  good  deal  of  a  Sunday  school  guy ;  he 
knows  that  Frake  seduces  young  women,  and  he  refuses 
to  get  messed  up  with  him,  even  financially." 

"How  are  you,  Glinden?"  began  Frake  familiarly. 
*'Glad  to  see  you.  Bennett  pretty  well  again?" 

"As  well  as  can  be  expected  under  the  circumstances." 

"He  wasn't  very  smart  to  let  North  American  Motors 
swallow  him  up,  was  he?" 

"It's  too  bad." 

"You  don't  seem  to  have  lost  any  sleep  over  it,"  con- 
tinued Frake,  contemplating  Fielding's  sturdy  figure,  solid 
face,  and  confident  air. 

"Well,  I  happen  to  have  an  option  on  three  thousand 
shares  of  Bennett  Motors." 

"Three  thousand  shares?"  repeated  Frake  with  a  green- 
ish look  in  his  eyes.  "Where  did  you  get  your  option?" 

"Dug  it  up." 

"At  what  price?" 

"A  hundred  and  five." 

"That's  fair." 

"Glad  you  think  so,"  said  Fielding,  leaning  forward. 
"I'll  tell  you  why.  I'd  like  to  get  you  to  buy  it  for  me." 

Frake  looked  at  Fielding  incredulously.  "I  have  list- 
ened to  all  sorts  of  propositions  across  this  desk,  Glinden. 
But  I  must  say  that  yours  is  in  a  class  entirely  by  itself." 

"The  conditions  are  in  a  class  entirely  by  themselves.  I 
am  assuming,  of  course,  that  you  are  not  indifferent  to- 
ward the  possibility  of  securing  substantial  holdings  in 
the  Bennett  Motor  Company.  Under  the  reorganization 
that  would  mean  a  handy  chunk  of  North  American  Mo- 
tors. I  don't  know  how  familiar  you  are  with  the  Bennett 
balance-sheet,  or  with  our  record  of  earnings."  Fielding 


140  GOLD   SHOD 

unfolded  the  records.  "Our  stock  dividends,  you  see,  have 
ranged  from  eight  to  thirty-seven  per  cent  a  year.  We 
have  no  bonds  or  preferred  stock." 

"Alexander  Dufresne  hasn't  got  a  damn  thing  that  I 
want.  Never  had  any  use  for  him." 

"At  the  same  time,  the  right  connections  there  would 
provide  a  magnificent  outlet  for  your  product." 

"We  never  have  the  slightest  trouble  selling  Frake 
tires." 

"In  another  eighteen  months  North  American  Motors 
is  going  to  be  so  big  and  important  that  it  may  rank 
alongside  U.  S.  Steel  and  Standard  Oil.  The  possibilities 
are  Napoleonic.  Dufresne  isn't  a  big  enough  man  to  stay 
in  control  much  longer.  It  wouldn't  take  you  long  to 
make  your  presence  felt  in  that  crowd." 

"I  wouldn't  even  cross  the  street  to  see  them  buried." 

"And  yet,  it  would  be  all  kinds  of  fun  for  you  to  have 
your  say  in  their  councils  without  their  knowing  it  was 
you,"  said  Fielding. 

A  Mephistophelian  gleam  appeared  in  Frake's  yellow- 
ish eyes.  "How  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Purchase  this  stock  for  me,  and  record  it  in  my  name. 
Of  course,  you  will  hold  it  and  receive  all  the  dividends. 
But  let  me  vote  it  at  your  direction.** 

"Well,  how  are  you  going  to  profit  by  such  an  arrange- 
ment?" demanded  Frake. 

"The  stock  in  my  name  would  exceed  that  in  Bennett's. 
It  is  not  inconceivable  that  there  would  soon  be  another 
president  of  the  Bennett  Motor  Company." 

Frake's  lifted  eye-brows  were  the  only  reply. 

"My  option  on  that  stock  expires  at  eleven-thirty  to- 
morrow," Fielding  added  carelessly. 

Frake  sat  looking  out  of  the  window;  only  the  anima- 
tion of  his  eyes  betrayed  any  interest  in  Fielding's  pro- 
posal. 

Fielding  rose.     "Do  you  want  to  play  or  don't  you?" 

"I'll  sit  in." 

"You  won't  be  sorry." 


GOLD   SHOD  141 

"I've  never  regretted  anything  yet.  Glinden,  can  you 
buy  that  stock  in  four  blocks  at  thirty-day  intervals?'* 

"I  think  so." 

"If  you  find  you  can,  wire  me  to-morrow  morning.  Give 
me  an  affirmative  answer  regarding  some  imaginary  tire 
deal;  if  you  can't,  wire  me  some  negative  about  tires. 
Another  thing.  No  check  will  pass  from  me  to  you.  This 
man" — Frake  wrote  the  name  and  address  of  a  Detroit 
banker — "will  hand  you  his  check  at  eleven  o'clock  to- 
morrow for  either  $315,000,  or  for  $78,750,  as  conditions 
require.  See?  I  would  prefer  to  buy  the  shares  in  four 
different  allotments ;  it  would  help  hide  the  source  of  your 
funds." 

"I  get  you." 

"It  would  make  the  whole  transaction  seem  more  nat- 
ural on  your  part.  How  much  salary  are  you  getting?" 

"Fifteen  thousand." 

"Three  thousand  shares  is  a  big  block  to  swing  on  that. 
We've  got  to  be  foxy."  Frake  rang  for  his  secretary. 
"Dictate  a  memorandum  to  me  stating  the  terms  of  our 
agreement." 

"I'm  under  great  obligations  to  you,  Mr.  Frake,"  said 
Fielding  when  the  stenographer  had  retired. 

"It's  horse  and  horse,"  replied  Frake. 

Fielding  hurried  to  his  train  and  sank  into  a  seat  in 
the  chair  car.  The  successful  outcome  of  his  mission 
acted  upon  him  like  a  wave  of  wine.  Before  boarding  the 
train  he  had  wired  Beth  the  single  word  "Successful"  and 
he  could  hardly  wait  to  tell  her  all  about  the  interview. 
This  was  the  sort  of  thing  she  lived  for — she  had  nar- 
rowed herself  down  to  this.  It  was  too  bad.  After  all, 
what  did  it  profit  him  to  have  thrust  his  way  into  this 
strengthened  position?  Power — but  for  what?  Only  to 
tunnel  his  way  deeper  into  this  turmoil  of  industrial  dark- 
ness, and  to  burrow  ever  farther  away  from  the  gleam 
of  his  early  desires.  Persistently  he  had  been  betraying 
something  very  dear  to  him.  Frake's  pledge  of  support 


142  GOLD    SHOD 

assumed  the  startling  aspect  of  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 
He  looked  out  of  the  train  window  with  melancholy  eyes. 
The  sight  of  the  soaking  Ohio  farmlands  carried  him  back 
to  his  boyhood  in  Elyria,  to  luminous  moments  with  his 
grandfather  at  the  piano,  and  Anton's  wonderful  silhou- 
ettes of  animals  on  the  wall.  Looking  into  the  future, 
Fielding  saw  a  new  shadow  on  the  wall — the  grotesque 
head  of  a  horse. 


CHAPTER  IX 

three  thousand  shares  had  been  recorded  in 
A  Fielding's  name,  at  discreet  intervals.  He  was  now 
attacking  his  duties  at  the  factory  with  a  fresh  vitality 
of  which  he  had  never  before  been  conscious.  He  even 
found  himself  becoming  fascinated  with  the  details  of 
production. 

At  the  suggestion  of  the  Dufresne  interests,  a  brilliant 
young  Bohemian  named  Pordek,  was  placed  in  charge  of 
engineering.  Pordek  had  been  assistant  to  the  inventive 
genius  of  one  of  the  large  manufacturers  of  electrical 
equipment,  but  his  interests  had  gradually  concentrated 
on  automotive  problems. 

"He's  a  wizard,"  said  Bennett.  "He's  got  some  ideas 
on  a  counteracting,  compensated  crankshaft  that  develops 
sixty-eight  per  cent  more  horsepower  and  seventy-five 
more  efficiency.  He  read  a  paper  a  while  ago  before  one 
of  the  institutes  of  technology  that  completely  upset 
some  of  their  theories  of  mechanics  and  made  them  rewrite 
their  text  books.  He's  got  a  doctor's  degree  from  tEe 
University  of  Jena,  wherever  the  hell  that  is." 

Fielding  liked  this  loudly-trumpeted  newcomer.  He 
found  a  thick-set  young  fellow  with  piercing  but  friendly 
eyes  that  were  set  rather  too  close  together,  a  big  nose, 
heavy  chin,  fleshy  lips.  The  foreign  tang  in  his  careful, 
studied  English  gave  Fielding  the  impression  of  an  acute 
mentality.  He  liked  the  earnestness,  intensity,  and  single- 
track  character  of  Pordek's  mind,  moving  only  in  engineer- 
ing lines.  Fielding  sounded  him  on  music  and  on  books, 
but  discovered  no  response.  This  pleased  him;  he  had 
begun  to  recognize  the  danger  in  divided  aims,  to  want 
around  him  men  who  were  free  from  the  interruptions  and 
distractions  of  other  interests. 

143 


144  GOLD    SHOD 

"Do  you  like  Detroit?"  asked  Fielding. 

"The  more  machinery  they  build  in  a  city  the  better  I 
like  it,"  said  Pordek,  lighting  a  cigarette  with  a  light,  al- 
most feminine  gesture. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  Bennett  car?" 

"It  is  not  bad.  You  have  a  fast  engine,  but  your 
transmission  is  not  sturdy  enough.  Its  housing  is  open 
to  criticism.  You  need  a  heavier  frame.  I  would  rec- 
ommend that  you  change  the  design  of  your  springs," 
began  Pordek.  There  followed  a  long  and  detailed  anal- 
ysis of  the  Bennett  power-plant  and  chassis. 

Fielding  knew  too  little  about  mechanics  to  comprehend 
much  of  what  Pordek  was  driving  at,  but  he  could  admire 
the  other's  thorough  grounding  in  mathematics  and  phys- 
ics. Once,  when  Fielding  had  made  some  absurd  remark 
about  a  machining  process,  Pordek  turned  upon  him  and 
demanded  with  amazement: 

"Mr.  Glinden,  don't  you  know  anything  about  ma- 
chines?" 

"Very  little." 

"My  God!"  gasped  the  engineer.  "I  will  explain  to 
you  some  of  these  things,"  he  added,  leading  Fielding  to 
the  machine  shop. 

"Your  micrometer  test  of  the  cylinder  bore  is  inade- 
quate," began  Pordek.  "We  shall  use  nothing  but  plug 
gages  hereafter.  You  don't  ream  your  bearings  right. 
I  shall  design  a  new  piston  ring  checker  for  you.  Your 
pistons  and  connecting  rods  need  more  careful  align- 
ment." 

Fielding  now  spent  many  hours  with  Pordek  under  the 
slanting  bars  of  sizzling  acetylene  rays,  and  grew  to  feel 
at  home  among  the  crashing  instruments  of  production. 
He  grew  familiar  with  the  motors  running  on  the  blocks 
with  a  roar  like  that  of  a  speedway.  He  came  to  know 
what  the  dial  gage  test  of  gears  was  all  about.  The 
smell  of  the  shops,  with  their  peculiar  odors  of  metal  fil- 
ings, lubricating  oil,  and  grinding  compound,  no  longer 
annoyed  him. 


GOLD   SHOD  145 

He  astounded  Bennett  one  day  with  a  detailed  descrip- 
tion of  the  merits  of  a  spring  shackle  adjustment  developed 
by  Pordek  to  prevent  side-play  and  rattling.  He  pre- 
pared a  radical  memorandum  attacking  the  inadequacy 
of  the  assembling  lines ;  he  electrified  a  dealer  convention 
with  a  glorification  of  the  spiral  bevel  gear-cutting  ma- 
chinery used  by  the  company,  and  gave  a  memorable  talk 
on  the  merchandising  values  of  the  "silent  room"  in  which 
gears  were  carefully  adjusted  and  set. 

"This  fellow  Pordek  is  all  right.  He's  educating 
Glinden  and  making  an  automobile  man  out  of  him,"  was 
Bennett's  satisfied  conclusion.  "Thank  God  this  geezer's 
got  something  besides  skirts  on  the  brain." 

Fielding  had  entered  upon  his  period  of  closest  concen- 
tration on  the  affairs  of  the  company.  His  decisions  were 
rapid  but  thoughtful ;  if  his  judgment  was  assailed,  he  sup- 
ported his  stand  with  convincing  reasoning.  He  knew  the 
value  of  rapid  and  decisive  action ;  it  improved  his  subor- 
dinates' respect  for  him,  steadied  them  in  their  work, 
and  established  his  reputation  as  a  calm,  clear-headed 
thinker.  Fielding  knew  that  he  was  getting  credit  for 
qualities  he  did  not  possess,  and  carefully  concealed  the 
true  Glinden.  He  felt  like  an  exotic  that  had  taken 
strange  root  in  this  world  of  fast-moving  affairs.  He 
forced  himself  to  talk  each  day  to  at  least  ten  officers 
or  department  heads,  both  to  know  what  was  happening 
and  to  maintain  the  illusion  of  an  intense  concern  with 
their  affairs.  He  closed  contracts  for  tires  and  steel, 
and  directed  the  purchase  of  leather,  axles,  bearings,  bat- 
teries, and  second-growth  hickory.  He  crowded  the  daily 
output  of  cars  to  new  high  figures,  organized  a  school  for 
salesmen,  and  made  speeches  at  conventions. 

Yet  all  this  fashioning  of  manufacturing  policies,  mer- 
chandising objectives,  service  aims;  this  selection  of  deal- 
ers ;  this  everlasting  fight  to  cut  down  overhead  and 
heighten  profits,  to  enforce  discipline,  to  reduce  waste, 
to  plan  the  strategy  of  conferences  and  conventions,  some- 


146  GOLD    SHOD 

how  failed  to  gratify  him.  He  caught  himself  wistful  to 
sit  down  in  silence — away  from  telephones,  doors,  letters, 
and  telegrams — to  start  a  novel,  to  fashion  a  song,  or  to 
ramble  through  an  essay.  Sometimes  he  wished  himself 
a  woodworker,  a  painter,  or  an  upholsterer,  in  his  own 
shop. 

Often  he  jumped  into  a  car  and  drove  furiously  out  to 
Grosse  Pointe,  to  let  the  rush  of  sunny  air  sweep  his 
brain  clear  of  responsibilities.  Going  home  to  Beth  was 
no  comfort ;  she  quizzed  him  ceaselessly.  She  knew  almost 
as  much  about  his  office  as  he  himself,  and  wanted  to  know 
everything ;  she  was  avid  for  details ;  she  questioned, 
argued,  planned  with  him,  advised  with  him.  He  felt 
more  and  more  like  an  instrument  in  her  thin,  restless 
hands,  a  piece  of  machinery  being  pressed  to  its  utmost 
performance. 

There  were  times,  while  Beth  talked,  that  Fielding  sat 
dreaming  of  the  magic  hours  of  freedom  with  that  unfor- 
gettable companion  in  Chicago,  whose  fragrant  hands 
were  so  unlike  the  managing  hands  of  Beth. 

Meanwhile  Bennett  had  no  suspicion  of  Fielding's  heavy 
purchases  of  stock,  or  of  his  plot  to  manoeuver  himself 
into  the  presidency,  and  was  increasingly  delighted 
with  his  manager's  enthusiastic  devotion  to  busi- 
ness. 

"When  I  moved  you  up  and  made  you  general  man- 
ager," Bennett  told  him,  "it  was  a  sick  man's  decision. 
I  was  in  a  corner  and  had  to  think  fast.  I  took  a  chance 
on  you  because  I  trusted  you  and  liked  you.  But  you 
went  in  as  a  stop-gap.  You  don't  know  how  it  surprised 
me  to  see  you  making  good.  I  didn't  think  you  had  the 
stuff.  I  thought  you'd  either  blow  up  or  else  let  these 
fellows  hammer  you  into  submission.  That's  happened 
a  good  many  times  in  this  place,  you  know."  Bennett 
stopped,  then  added  abruptly:  "You  like  me,  don't  you?" 

"Very  much." 

"That's  a  mistake.     It  will  cost  you  money." 


GOLD    SHOD  147 

"It's  a  luxury  I  think  perhaps  I  can  afford,"  answered 
Fielding  lightly,  to  cover  a  sudden  compassion. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that."  Bennett  paused.  "I 
keep  looking  for  a  certain  element  of  egotism  in  men. 
It's  got  to  be  well  concealed,  but  it's  got  to  be  there. 
I  demand  loyalty,  of  course.  But  I'd  be  a  fool  if  I  didn't 
recognize  that  a  man's  primary  loyalty  is  to  himself. 
I  can  do  more  with  that  combination.  It's  better  business. 
It  puts  the  horse  ahead  of  the  cart,  where  he  belongs." 

Bennett  was  in  and  out,  and  the  direction  of  the  com- 
pany's affairs  gravitated  steadily  into  Fielding's  hands. 
He  no  longer  questioned  his  qualifications  to  sit  at  this 
desk.  One  by  one  his  distracting  moods  fell  away  from 
him  like  husks.  The  old  reveries  deserted  him ;  the  haunt- 
ing, obstructing  sense  of  beauty  faded  out.  When  he 
drove  to  the  factory  through  the  stinging  autumn  air 
of  early  morning  it  was  with  a  lust  to  get  at  his  work. 
Business  now  stimulated  him  instead  of  exhausting  him. 
He  faced  the  gust  of  the  day's  details  with  a  kind  of  joy. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  devour  anything  that  got  into  my 
way,"  he  said  to  Beth. 

"For  a  long  time  I  was  worried,"  she  replied.  "You 
didn't  seem  well.  You  looked  pale  and  worn  out.  I 
was  afraid  the  strain  was  getting  the  better  of  you." 

"I  had  to  drive  myself.     I  often  felt  like  quitting." 

Beth  looked  a  little  startled. 

"Oh,  it  takes  more  than  a  few  years  to  produce  a  busi- 
ness man,  you  know.  Maybe  he's  the  product  of  genera- 
tions. Anyway,  I  inherited  nothing  along  these  lines. 
My  father  had  none  of  it  in  him ;  it  killed  him  to  have  to 
work  in  a  lounge  factory — think  of  it !  My  grandfather 
was  a  doctor ;  before  that  he  was  a  musician.  His  people 
before  him  were  farmers,  and  weavers,  and  potters,  and 
teachers.  You're  different.  You  were  born  with  the 
heredity  of  business." 

"We  can  be  grateful  for  that,"  smiled  Beth. 

So  far,  Alexander  Duf resne  had  interfered  but  slightly 


148  GOLD   SHOD 

in  the  conduct  of  the  Bennett  Company.  Fielding  had 
got  no  intimation  that  Duf resne  even  knew  anything  about 
his  shares.  Several  observers  from  New  York  had  vis- 
ited the  factory,  had  met  and  talked  to  Fielding,  but  the 
latter  had  thus  far  no  evidence  that  Dufresne  knew  he 
was  on  earth.  So  it  surprised  him  when,  late  in  Novem- 
ber, he  was  summoned  to  New  York. 

Curious  as  to  what  was  impending,  Fielding  reported 
at  the  executive  offices  of  the  North  American  Motors 
Company  in  lower  Broadway.  Fielding  found  Dufresne 
to  be  a  man  of  huge  proportions ;  his  face  and  frame  were 
almost  incredibly  broad;  his  genial  brown  eyes  were  far 
apart  and  gazed  through  bi-focal  spectacles.  His  teeth 
were  correspondingly  large  and  were  gray  in  color,  un- 
even in  shading  and  structure.  He  had  a  ready  smile 
and  a  lop-sided  jaw.  His  hands  were  large,  but  not 
fleshy.  He  frequently  elevated  them  as  he  talked,  hold- 
ing the  fingertips  of  one  hand  in  contact  with  those  of  the 
other.  His  words  came  slowl}7,  in  low  pleasant  tones.  He 
was  not  at  all  the  man  Fielding  had  expected  to  find. 

"I  want  to  cultivate  a  closer  acquaintance  with  you 
Bennett  men,"  began  Dufresne.  He  inquired  about  Ben- 
nett and  Pordek,  the  engineer.  Then  he  added :  "Tell  me 
about  yourself." 

"Beginning  where?" 

"With  your  connection  with  the  Bennett  unit." 

While  Fielding  briefly  recounted  the  development  of  his 
career  in  Detroit,  Dufresne  studied  him  closely,  never  re- 
moving his  eyes,  observing  the  calmness  and  ease  with 
which  Glinden  expressed  himself,  and  pleased  with  the 
latter's  air  of  respectful  deference. 

"Where  were  you  raised?"  asked  Dufresne. 

"I  spent  part  of  my  boyhood  in  Elyria,  Ohio,  and  the 
rest  in  Chicago." 

"I'm  glad  you  mentioned  Ohio.  When  I  was  hiring 
salesmen,  I  never  picked  a  man  who  wasn't  raised  in  a 
small  town.  The  other  kind  rarely  know  anything  about 
human  nature.  It's  the  plain  people  of  this  country  that 


GOLD   SHOD  149 

we're  manufacturing  goods  for.  When  I  was  a  kid,  I 
had  my  choice  of  starting  in  business  selling  bicycles  in 
Dixon,  Illinois,  or  going  to  work  as  a  bank  messenger  in 
Chicago.  I'm  glad  I  had  horse-sense  enough  to  stay  in 
Dixon." 

"I  begin  to  see  why  you  have  made  such  headway," 
said  Fielding,  gazing  with  interest  upon  this  colossus  of 
affairs.  He  had  expected  to  find  a  suave  and  polished 
financier;  instead  he  had  found  a  man  curiously  simple 
and  unpretentious. 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  the  absorption  of  your  com- 
pany by  our  interests?" 

"I  personally  welcome  it,"  answered  Fielding.  "But 
there  are  dangers  in  an  absentee  ownership.  Production 
and  sales  efficiency  are  largely  mental;  they  respond  best 
of  all  to  a  strong  and  nearby  individual  leadership." 

"Mr.  Bennett  continues  in  the  capacity  of  leader." 

"I  don't  question  the  quality  of  his  leadership." 

"Do  you  consider  that  his  spirit  has  been  dampened 
by  our  entrance  into  the  equation?" 

"He  has  always  been  proud,  impetuous,  and  wilful," 
answered  Fielding. 

"Do  you  question  his  ability  to  carry  out  policies 
with  enthusiasm,  in  the  event  policies  are  adopted  in  con- 
ference to  which  he  may  initially  have  taken  exception?" 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  question  it,"  responded  Fielding 
bluntly.  "It  must  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Bennett  is 
a  pioneer  in  his  field." 

"I  hardly  think  there  will  be  any  trouble,  Mr.  Glinden. 
We  have  a  very  great  respect  for  Mr.  Bennett's  accomp- 
lishments and  for  his  judgment.  I'm  very  glad  to  have 
seen  you.  My  compliments  to  your  associates." 

Fielding  left  the  interview  puzzled.  Had  he  strength- 
ened his  position  with  Dufresne,  or  weakened  it?  Should 
he  have  mentioned  his  expanded  holding  of  Bennett  stock? 
He  could  not  quite  make  out  Dufresne,  or  Dufresne's 
judgment  of  him.  The  shrewdness  of  this  powerful  man 
had  in  it  an  Eastern  refinement  baffling  to  the  Mid- Western 


150  GOLD   SHOD 

mind.     Numerous    misgivings     attended    him     back    to 
Detroit. 

On  December  second,  he  received  a  telegram : 

AT  BOARD  MEETING  TO-DAY  OF  NORTH  AMERICAN 
MOTORS  COMPANY  YOU  WERE  UNANIMOUSLY  ELECTED 
PRESIDENT  OF  BENNETT  MOTOR  COMPANY  CONGRATU- 
LATIONS LETTER  FOLLOWS 

ALEXANDER  DUFRESNE. 


CHAPTER  X 

golden  fevers  of  his  boyhood  loves  came  drifting 
A  out  of  the  background  of  Fielding's  memory.  He 
stood  at  the  window  of  his  office,  watching  his  employees 
issue  in  vast  streams  from  his  factory  after  the  day's 
work.  Nothing  like  this  had  ever  stirred  in  his  boyhood 
dreams.  He  was  filled  with  a  nervous  depression;  he 
felt  strangely  out  of  place  and  pitied  Bennett,  whom  he 
had  seen  but  once  since  his  own  elevation  to  the  presi- 
dency. He  reflected  gloomily  that  Bennett  considered 
him  an  ingrate.  He  was  fond  of  Bennett,  and  regretted 
that  the  other  had  to  fall  for  him  to  ri^ie. 

Velvet  measures  of  Anton's  playing  floated  back  to  him 
out  of  his  moody  childhood.  Now  his  memories  shifted 
to  Wicker  Park;  and  he  recalled  how  he  had  revolted 
against  the  turmoil  of  the  gymnasium  and  locker-room, 
how  he  had  fled  from  their  smells  of  perspiring  bodies, 
rubber  soles,  stale  towels,  and  witch-hazel,  to  the  art 
students'  room  under  the  rafters,  to  the  tranquil  com- 
panionship of  its  easels,  drawing-boards,  plaster  casts, 
and  prints. 

He  remembered  how,  on  one  moaning  autumnal  night, 
the  construction  of  classroom  themes  had  suddenly  flashed 
from  a  task  into  a  delight.  He  smiled  at  those  first  sen- 
timental efforts  to  convey  his  moods  into  language.  He 
was  reminded  of  Adelaide  and  of  how  he  had  stood  in 
front  of  the  kitchen  range,  staring  into  its  bed  of  coals, 
speaking  her  name,  thinking  that  its  syllables  had  the 
sound  of  chimes.  He  was  sorry  that  his  love  for  Beth 
could  not  have  been  manufactured  of  that  same  infinite 
splendor. 

Descending  to  the  compound,  he  entered  his  car  and 

151 


152  GOLD    SHOD 

drove  out  to  his  home  in  Highland  Park.  He  felt  like 
a  boy  again ;  he  was  filled  with  a  shy  hunger  for  something 
unexpected  but  anticipated.  Beth  and  the  Ellises  were  in 
Florida,  where  Fielding  was  to  join  them  for  Christmas. 
He  ate  his  dinner  alone,  then  went  to  the  library  to  smoke 
and  drink  his  coffee.  The  mood  that  had  come  over  him 
at  the  factory  still  persisted.  He  picked  up  a  pencil 
and  tried  to  write;  he  began  to  construct  groping  sen- 
tences that  he  was  unable  to  finish.  The  artist  in  him 
refused  to  respond. 

Recalling  that  there  was  a  dance  to-night  at  one  of 
his  clubs,  he  decided  to  dress  and  go.  He  and  Beth  had 
gone  to  a  number  of  these  affairs;  and  to-night  many 
of  the  faces  were  familiar  to  him.  The  floor  of  the  ball- 
room was  already  crowded  when  he  arrived.  The  smells 
of  punch  and  French  powder,  the  swinging  dance  music, 
the  white  shoulders  and  sibilance  of  silk  warmed  his  senses ; 
and  he  looked  about  him  for  a  partner.  The  absence  of 
Beth  made  him  feel  younger  and  unattached.  An  ex- 
pectant sense  of  freedom  came  over  him. 

"How  do  you  do?"  asked  a  heavy  matron,  shaking 
hands.  "Did  Mrs.  Glinden  come?" 

"No.     She's  down  south." 

"To  be  sure.  Then  be  careful,*'  replied  the  other,  en- 
deavoring to  be  coy. 

The  music  began,  and  to  Fielding's  relief,  the  other  was 
claimed  and  borne  away  by  a  manufacturer  of  accessories. 

What  Fielding  craved  to-night  was  youth,  slender  elas- 
ticity, vivacious  companionship.  He  wanted  to  feel  the 
rejuvenating  nearness  of  fresh  young  bodies,  the  rhythm 
and  clicking  gait  of  youthful  feet.  He  wanted  to  listen 
to  new  voices,  to  explore  unfamiliar  eyes. 

"There's  that  man  Glinden,"  a  wizened-looking  banker 
was  saying  to  his  wife  in  an  undertone.  "He's  the  latest 
of  Dufresne's  favorites.  Everybody  is  wondering  how 
long  this  young  fellow  is  going  to  last." 

"Introduce  him  to  me,"  responded  the  wife  with  a  yawn. 
"He's  got  such  a  good  figure." 


GOLD   SHOD  153 

"Hello  there,  Glinden,"  a  rival  manufacturer  was  say- 
ing. "What  do  you  people  mean  by  cutting  your  prices 
again  ?" 

"Don't  you  like  it?" 

"Not  by  a  damn  sight." 

A  number  of  others  joined  them  at  the  punch-bowl, 
automobile  men,  with  faces  of  strength  and  mobility, 
changing  quickly  from  laughter  to  gravity,  men  of  solid 
poise,  standing  firmly  on  their  feet.  One  told  a  well- 
seasoned  story  that  provoked  a  gale  of  confidential 
laughter. 

"I  hear  that  that  body  engineer  over  at  Packard  has 
resigned,"  said  some  one. 

"Where  did  he  go — over  to  you  people?'*  another  asked 
Fielding. 

"No,  we  can't  use  all  the  good  men.     I  wish  we  could." 

"Speaking  of  body  engineers,"  began  the  raconteur  of 
the  group,  again  resuming  an  appropriate  undertone. 
"Did  you  ever  hear  the  one  about " 

Fielding  listened  unamused  to  the  tale.  The  vicarious 
dissipation  of  sensual  stories  did  not  excite  him. 

"Aren't  you  doing  a  little  stepping,  old  cock?"  some 
one  asked  a  chap  with  a  highball  face. 

"What  I  need  is  a  shot  in  the  foot,"  he  replied. 

Fielding  was  soon  dancing  with  an  airy  young  widow; 
there  had  been  times  in  the  past  few  months  that  he  had 
fancied  himself  half  in  love  with  her.  She  danced  with 
a  kind  of  languishing  stealth ;  it  had  the  effect  of  keeping 
him  on  his  guard. 

"Why  don't  you  people  come  and  see  me?"  she  com- 
plained. 

"I've  been  disgustingly  busy,"  said  Fielding. 

"Liar,"  she  laughed.  "If  you  have  nothing  better  to 
do  next  Tuesday,  run  over." 

"Mrs.  Glinden  is  away." 

"You  come." 

"I  hardly  think  I'd  better." 

"Don't  be  childish,"  was  her  scoffing  reply. 


154  GOLD    SHOD 

The  music  stopped. 

"Just  when  we  had  started,'*  she  protested.  "Encore !" 
she  cried,  clapping  her  small  gloved  hands. 

The  orchestra  resumed  playing;  Fielding's  companion 
resumed  her  patter.  But  to-night  he  was  unresponsive 
to  her  charms.  Her  moods  alternated  between  limpid 
surrender  and  a  petulant  pretence  of  indifference.  Field- 
ing could  read  her  like  a  page  printed  in  ten-point. 

Several  times  the  dancing  carried  them  near  the  figure 
of  a  girl  who  had  instantly  arrested  Fielding's  attention. 
She  could  have  been  no  more  than  eighteen  or  twenty. 
Her  hair  was  jet-black;  the  coloring  of  her  skin  was 
amazingly  fair;  her  straight  thin  nose  was  rather  short. 
He  kept  hunting  for  her  among  the  dancers.  Once  he 
saw  her  crossing  the  floor  between  the  dances ;  he  had 
never  realized  before  with  what  splendid  grace  the  act  of 
walking  could  be  accomplished.  She  swung  one  of  her 
arms  with  an  independent  spirit ;  he  was  delighted  with  the 
mannerism.  Fielding  could  not  remember  when  he  had 
ever  wanted  more  to  know  anybody.  At  length  he  wan- 
dered away  from  the  dancing.  The  old  boyhood  shyness 
kept  him  from  making  inquiries  about  the  girl. 

From  another  part  of  the  club  he  heard  a  piano.  He 
supposed  that  the  broken,  meditative  bars  came  from  the 
floor  above.  He  went  upstairs  and  saw  that  the  door 
of  the  music  room  stood  half  open.  From  it  came  the 
melodious  stream  of  a  Mozart  minuet,  and  Fielding  was 
flooded  with  old  sensations.  He  was  not  aware  for  a 
moment  that  the  figure  at  the  piano  was  the  girl  he  was 
hunting.  There  was  a  feline  grace  about  her  hands ;  they 
moved  with  flexible  precision  over  the  keys.  Suddenly 
she  looked  up,  saw  the  listener  and  stopped  playing 
abruptly. 

"I  didn't  know  I  had  an  audience,"  she  said  with  a  note 
of  inquiry  in  her  voice. 

"Don't  stop,"  replied  Fielding,  starting  toward  her. 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  appraisal. 

"Won't  you  please  play  that  again?"  he  asked. 


GOLD   SHOD  155 

"If  you  like." 

He  stood  listening  with  critical  pleasure  to  the  texture 
and  coloring  of  her  playing.  Her  sensitive  hands,  com- 
pounded of  strength  and  understanding,  fascinated  him. 
She  finished  the  piece,  and  struck  a  few  liquid  meditative 
chords. 

"I  saw  you  dancing,"  he  said. 

"It  was  so  stupid,"  she  answered. 

"Watching  you  wasn't.  Then  I  lost  track  of  you. 
I  thought  you  had  gone." 

"Do  you  care  for  Chopin?" 

"Play  anything." 

His  eyes  were  feeding  upon  her  hands.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  music  could  issue  from  those  hands  almost  with- 
out contact  with  the  key-board. 

"Do  you  mind  my  being  in  here  with  you?"  ae  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"My  name  is  Glinden,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  know.     Some  one  pointed  you  out." 

"And  yours,  may  I  ask?" 

"Olgarth." 

"Miss  Olgarth,"  he  repeated.     "What  else?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Your  first  name." 

"Brenda." 

"I  like  it." 

She  was  playing  again,  but  not  quite  as  calmly  as  be- 
fore, and  now  and  then  she  hit  the  wrong  note.  Her  trace 
of  agitation  did  not  escape  him;  but  added  to  (her 
charm. 

"I've  got  to  go,"  she  said  abruptly.  "They'll  be  won- 
dering where  I  am." 

"Let  me  take  you  downstairs." 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't." 

"All  right.  This  has  been  charming  of  you.  I  want 
to  see  you  again." 

"Good  night,"   she  said  again,  and  hurried  away. 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  when  she  was  leaving  the 


156  GOLD    SHOD 

club.  In  her  eyes  was  a  glistening  look  of  recognition, 
but  she  did  not  nod  or  speak. 

The  man  with  the  highball  face,  standing  nearby,  saw 
the  look  in  Fielding's  eyes.  Turning  to  a  companion,  he 
remarked : 

"Some  one  please  page  Mrs.  Glinden.  Fielding  seems 
to  be  skidding." 

Fine,  dry  snowflakes  were  sifting  through  the  night  air 
and  lodging  in  the  brown  turf  in  front  of  the  club,  when 
Fielding  entered  his  car  and  started  for  home.  He  could 
think  only  of  Brenda.  Every  thought  of  her  was  fused 
with  impressions  of  music.  His  image  of  her  was  insep- 
arable from  melodies  that  flowed  and  ebbed;  its  texture 
was  harmonic.  Every  hue  and  shading  and  light  and 
line  seemed  to  have  sound. 

But  when  he  had  reached  his  home,  and  was  surrounded 
again  by  its  familiar  objects,  all  of  which  brought  back 
thoughts  of  Beth,  the  singular  charm  of  Brenda  Olgarth 
receded  into  unreality.  The  fragments  of  their  conver- 
sation at  the  piano,  the  glow  in  her  temperamental  eyes 
now  seemed  only  to  have  been  imagined. 

At  his  desk  the  next  day  he  was  absent-minded  and  de- 
tached. The  plant's  towering  brick  smoke-stack,  with 
the  name  Bennett  running  from  top  to  bottom  in  emphatic 
lettering,  and  the  great  spread  of  factory  buildings  vis- 
ible from  his  window  brought  no  contented  reflection  that 
he  was  now  in  command  of  this  ambitious  enterprise. 
He  would  rather  have  been  wandering  unknown  through 
the  streets  of  Detroit,  searching  pensively  for  Brenda 
Olgarth. 

".  .  .  Half  of  these  dealers  are  laying  down  on  us 
again,"  an  assistant  sales  manager  was  complaining. 

"Call  a  dealers'  convention,"  answered  Fielding.  "Get 
them  down  here  and  we'll  inject  some  action  into  them." 

Quick  decisions  had  become  a  habit  with  him. 

The  next  afternoon,  he  drove  to  the  lagoon  on  Belle  Isle, 
strapped  on  a  pair  of  skates,  and  descended  upon  the 


GOLD    SHOD  157 

ice.  It  was  like  a  sheet  of  platinum,  etched  with  innumer- 
able scrolls,  weighted  down  at  its  edges  by  uneven  heaps 
of  snow,  bluish-gray  in  color.  Beyond  rose  the  trees 
of  the  park,  some  of  them  still  brown  with  unfallen 
leaves. 

Fielding  glided  gravely  from  end  to  end  of  the  pond. 
The  soft  g-r-r-r  of  his  hockey-skates,  the  swinging  rhythm 
of  his  flight,  the  brush  of  the  cool  air  against  his  face 
were  exhilarating.  Although  he  had  not  come  with  the 
hope  of  finding  Brenda  among  the  skaters,  he  was  filled 
with  rousing  impressions  of  her. 

It  amused  him  to  think  that  he  had  run  away  like  this 
from  his  desk — he,  president  of  the  Bennett  Motor  Com- 
pany. He  chuckled  at  the  absurdity  of  it.  Suddenly 
he  no  longer  chuckled,  for  he  had  caught  sight  of  a  skat- 
ing figure  that  resembled  Brenda  Olgarth.  He  swerved 
and  glided  forward  in  pursuit.  Overtaking  her,  he  verified 
the  impression  that  it  was  she. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  I'm  in  luck,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Mr.  Glinden  !"  she  gasped. 

"It  must  have  been  an  intuition  that  made  me  think 
of  going  skating  to-day,"  he  said  delightedly. 

He  took  her  hands  and  they  moved  slowly  over  the  ice 
together,  Fielding  skating  backward.  The  warmth  of 
her  arms  entered  his  hands  and  streamed  graciously 
through  him.  He  was  dazzled  by  this  nearness  to  her, 
by  their  united  motion.  The  skaters  all  around  them 
receded  for  Fielding  into  the  phantom  figures  of  a  world 
of  shadows.  He  was  conscious  only  of  Brenda,  of  the 
fragrance  of  her  face,  the  brush  of  her  garments  against 
him,  the  tint  and  texture  of  her  skin,  the  pull  and  warmth 
of  her  hands,  the  measured  motion  of  her  flexible  body. 

"Getting  tired?" 

"No,  I  just  want  to  keep  going,"  she  said. 

The  indefatigability  of  her  youth  entered  Fielding  and 
traveled  through  his  veins  and  sinews.  All  the  girls  that 
he  had  fearfully  adored  as  a  boy  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  been  molded  into  this  vivid  creature  before  him;  it 


158  GOLD    SHOD 

was  as  if  she  had  been  sent  to  him  in  glorious  compensation 
for  the  vanquished  longings  of  those  empty  days. 

Brenda's  features  by  daylight  were  even  more  satis- 
factory to  him  than  they  had  been  by  night.  The  tissue 
of  glamor  through  which  she  had  first  appeared  to  him, 
persisted.  He  remembered  faces  of  women  that  had 
seemed  flawless  to  him  in  repose,  only  to  grow  cheapened 
and  to  lose  everything  when  they  smiled.  Brenda's  smile 
bore  out  and  amplified  every  promise  of  her  fine  features. 

"I  was  glad  to  have  seen  you  again  for  a  moment  be- 
fore you  left  the  dance  the  other  night,"  he  told  her. 
"Only  I  failed  to  see  whom  you  were  with.  I  wonder  if 
I  know  any  of  your  people." 

"I  hardly  think  so." 

"Where  do  you  study  music?"  he  inquired. 

"Boston  Conservatory." 

"Then  you're  just  here  for  the  holidays?"  he  asked, 
disappointed. 

The  early  darkness  of  the  winter  evening  was  descend- 
ing. Patches  of  smoky  red  colored  the  west ;  the  ice  grew 
grayer;  arc  lights  glared  above  the  snowy  banks. 

"It's  late.     I  must  be  going,"  said  Brenda. 

"I'll  drive  you  home  in  my  car." 

They  stalked  to  the  shelter  house.  Bending  reverently 
before  her,  Fielding  unstrapped  her  skates.  The  build- 
ing was  filled  with  a  close,  steaming  warmth  after  the 
frosty  air  of  the  pond.  From  the  refreshment  counter 
came  the  smells  of  cider,  coffee,  hot  chocolate,  ice  cream, 
peanuts,  molasses  candy,  and  damp  leather.  Boisterous 
talk  and  laughter  rang  out.  But  Fielding  was  unaware 
of  anything  but  the  girl  in  front  of  whom  he  was  bending, 
unstrapping  her  skates  and  touching  with  awe  the  leather 
of  her  shoes. 

Emerging  from  the  shelter  house,  they  started  for  the 
car.  Their  feet  tingled.  Walking  seemed  fettered  after 
the  swinging  motion  of  skating. 

Fielding  was  thinking  of  another  afternoon  on  the  ice, 
years  before  when  he  was  an  awkward  boy.  He  had  been 


GOLD   SHOD  159 

skating  with  one  of  his  youthful  divinities,  and  had  been 
mightily  in  love.  The  moment  they  left  the  ice,  a  con- 
straint had  arisen  between  them ;  neither  knew  what  to 
say ;  with  a  sinking  heart  he  had  felt  himself  losing  all  the 
sentimental  ground  he  had  gained  while  skating  with  her; 
he  had  lacked  the  courage  and  the  technique  to  express 
what  he  wanted  to  say  to  her.  His  opportunity  had 
beamed  and  gone  out.  He  had  been  too  fastidious  to 
utter  stale  and  stupid  sentimentalities.  He  had  gone 
home  crushed  and  defeated.  It  had  been  a  tragedy  to 
him  to  be  young.  Devastating  losses  had  littered  the 
roads  of  his  boyhood. 

Fielding  put  Brenda  into  his  car  and  crawled  in  beside 
her.  The  car  rolled  forward  over  the  snowy  road. 

"I  can't  imagine  a  finer  time  of  the  year  to  have  met 
you,"  he  said.  "You're  like  a  sort  of  Christmas  pres- 
ent." 

"Your  half-holiday  has  gone  to  your  head,"  she  laughed. 

"It  has  gone  to  my  head,  to  my  feet,  to  my  heart,  and 
all  through  me,  my  sparkling  friend.  I  feel  like  a  kid 
to-day.  I  have  fallen  recklessly  in  love  and  I  don't  give 
a  hang  who  knows  it." 

"How  alarming,"  said  Miss  Olgarth. 

"That's  encouraging,"  replied  Fielding.  "A  reason- 
able amount  of  alarm  is  a  sine  qua  non  of  all  well-managed 
flirtations." 

"Why  are  you  stopping  the  car?"  demanded  Miss 
Olgarth.  . 

"I'm  going  to  kiss  you,"  he  said,  and  carried  out  the 
threat. 

"You  didn't  ask  permission  to  do  that,"  she  protested. 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  say  no.  You  see  I  too  am  not 
without  appropriate  alarm." 

"It's  a  funny  way  for  a  big  business  man  like  you  to 
act." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  It's  entirely  natural.  You 
are  intoxicating.  You  compel  me  to  adore  you." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  drive  on?" 


160  GOLD   SHOD 

"No,  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  while  I  have  the  chance." 

"All  right.  Your  nonsense  is  interesting.  But  I  for- 
bid you  to  take  any  more  liberties,"  said  Brenda  gayly. 

"I'll  compromise  to  the  extent  of  a  semi-liberty,"  he 
said,  taking  her  hand.  "That's  comfortable.  Now  tell 
me,  why  do  you  characterize  my  attitude  as  nonsense?'* 

"There  are  two  good  reasons.  One  is  your  wife  and 
the  other  is  a  very  charming  man  in  Boston  to  whom  I'm 
engaged." 

"Fm  glad  he's  in  Boston.  But  neither  reason  inter- 
feres with  my  devotion  to  you." 

"Don't  you  love  your  wife?" 

"Yes,  of  course.     She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman." 

"Beautiful,  I  hear." 

"Very." 

"Out-of-sight,  out-of-mind?" 

"No.  I  am  quite  devoted  to  her.  Nevertheless  it  is 
possible  to  love  more  than  one  woman  at  a  time.  And 
it  is  possible  for  a  girl  to  care  for  two  or  more  men 
at  a  time.  You,  for  example,  must  have  found  it  difficult 
to  decide  which  of  your  suitors  to  become  engaged  to. 
Each  had  his  qualifications.  An  agreement  to  marry  a 
certain  one  doesn't  destroy  your  interest  in  the  others. 
A  woman  usually  does  find  herself  regretting  that  she 
didn't  marry  one  of  the  others.  It  is  the  others  that 
always  seem  the  most  romantic.  I  question  whether  you'll 
ever  marry.  Certainly  not  very  soon." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  demanded  Brenda  Ol- 
garth  with  interest. 

"You're  too  much  of  an  artist.  Your  love  will  be 
hard  to  control.  It  will  kindle  often  and  flame  to  and 
fro.  You  have  temperament." 

"What  do  you  know  about  temperament  and  artists? 
You're  a  business  man." 

Fielding  smiled. 

"When  are  you  leaving  town?"  he  asked. 

"In  a  week." 

"I  am  leaving  next  Monday.     You'll  be  gone  when  I 


GOLD   SHOD  161 

get  back.  But  I'm  going  to  find  you  again.  You're  too 
delightful  to  lose  track  of.  I'm  not  going  to  pursue 
you  or  to  bother  you ;  that's  one  reason  why  you'll  be 
glad  to  see  me  when  I  turn  up.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to 
you  to  know  that  there  is  some  one  who  can  love  you 
without  pestering  you  to  death.  I  will  even  agree  not  to 
try  to  see  you  again  before  I  leave  town  next  week.  A 
Christmas  present  should  be  put  away  and  be  kept  festive 
and  uncommon." 

Brenda  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  interest  in  her 
glowing  eyes. 

"Tempter,"  she  answered. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HE  refused  to  state  his  business,  and  he  refused  to 
give  his  name,"  said  Fielding's  secretary. 

Fielding  read  the  card — "The  Blasphemer."  "Let  him 
in,"  he  said,  rising.  The  card  had  evoked  one  of  the 
most  vivid  memories  in  Fielding's  life — a  feverish,  slender 
face,  a  vivacious  charm,  fluent  gestures,  eyes  that  might 
have  been  a  woman's.  He  wondered  whether  the  Blas- 
phemer had  changed,  whether  that  marvelous  animation 
still  persisted. 

"Well,  how  the  hell  are  you?"  demanded  the  visitor, 
wringing  Fielding's  hand,  and  surveying  the  roomy  splen- 
dor of  the  president's  office. 

"You  couldn't  have  done  me  a  better  turn,'*  said  Field- 
ing. "I  thought  you  were  in  Honolulu." 

"Lord,  I've  been  to  a  hundred  places  since  Honolulu. 
I'm  going  to  New  York.  I'm  through  kicking  around. 
I'm  through  braying  to  all  and  sundry.  I'm  going  to 
work.  God  damn  my  irresponsible  soul!" 

Fielding  slapped  his  desk.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
I'll  provide  you  with  a  job  and  keep  you  on  our  pay-roll, 
without  expecting  too  much  work  from  you.  Then  you 
can  write  some  more  of  those  delightful  imaginary  con- 
versations between  gravestones  in  Graceland  Cemetery." 

"I  wouldn't  live  in  Detroit  for  all  the  rubles  in  Russia. 
New  York  calls.  It  will  act  on  me  like  strong  drink.  It 
gets  under  the  skin  like  a  hypodermic.  It  makes  you  keep 
going  or  get  out." 

Fielding  listened  with  delight  to  the  old  familiar  roar 
and  rant. 

"In  my  most  imaginative  moments  I  never  expected  to 
see  you  in  such  lofty  eminence  as  this,"  waved  the  Blas- 
phemer. "How  did  it  happen?  I  ask  to  know.  (This 

162 


GOLD   SHOD  163 

isn't  a  damn  bit  like  you.  It  bears  the  stamp  of  some 
one  else.  You  never  had  the  itch  for  anything  like  this. 
I  envy  you,  pity  you,  rejoice  with  you  and  grieve  with 
you.  It  must  be  heaven.  It  must  be  unmitigated  hell. 
I  suppose  there  are  compensations — a  fine  assortment  of 
exclusive  luxuries  reserved  for  you  darlings  of  the  gods." 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  said  Fielding.  "What  have 
you  been  writing?" 

"Several  very  bad  tragedies  that  nobody  wants.  If 
one  of  them  ever  got  produced,  like  Charlie  Lamb,  I  should 
probably  help  boo  it  off  the  stage  myself.  I  don't  blame 
the  producers — I  merely  hate  them.  From  what  I  read, 
Broadway  productions  continue  to  be  utterly  lousy.  But 
for  all  of  New  York's  blatant  vulgarity,  it  is  so  big  and 
curious  and  impetuous  that  it  can't  become  institutional- 
ized. Thank  God  for  that." 

The  Blasphemer  was  taken  with  a  fit  of  coughing. 

"This  bastard  cough!"  he  gasped. 

"My  doctor  is  a  hound  on  coughs,"  said  Fielding. 

He  rather  dreaded  the  effect  his  visitor  might  have 
on  Beth,  but  he  wanted  them  to  meet — and  he  wanted 
him  to  see  the  establishment.  He  regretted  that  he  had 
neglected  the  Blasphemer.  He  thought  of  the  many 
others  he  had  put  in  the  way  of  better  jobs,  always  with 
ulterior  objects  of  his  own,  always  with  the  motive  of 
strengthening  his  useful  friendships.  He  realized  with 
a  shock  that  there  had  ceased  to  be  anything  generous 
about  him,  that  he  had  grown  hard  and  crafty  and 
grasping. 

When  the  butler  bowed  them  in,  Beth  was  looking  her 
best.  To  make  the  right  impression  upon  Fielding's  as- 
sociates was  a  very  serious  business  of  hers. 

"Mrs.  Glinden,"  said  Fielding,  "let  me  present  a  very 
dear  friend  of  mine." 

"I  am  always  happy  to  meet  one  of  Mr.  Glinden's  busi- 
ness friends,"  she  replied,  shaking  hands. 

The  Blasphemer  bowed  gravely.  "I  am  hardly  what 
might  be  called  a  business  friend,"  he  answered. 


164  GOLD    SHOD 

"Mrs.  Glinden,"  he  continued,  when  they  were  seated 
for  dinner,  "your  husband  is  getting  plutocratically  and 
appropriately  fat.'* 

"Beef  has  its  advantages,"  said  Fielding.  "It's  an 
asset  in  business.  It  often  helps  bang  home  a  point  in 
conference.  I'd  like  to  have  your  opinion  of  this  claret." 

"In  die  Augen  schauen,"  replied  the  Blasphemer,  lifting 
his  glass.  "Very  seductive  indeed.  Quite  in  the  care- 
fully-selected class  of  the  cocktails  we  drank  a  moment 
ago.  Hardly  of  the  same  vintage,  I  might  add,  as  that 
we  used  to  consume  when  we  were  poor  devotees  of  the 
arts — in  Chicago.  But  they  were  put  down  with  relish 
for  all  of  that,  Mrs.  Glinden." 

"I  dare  say,"  she  responded.  She  had  been  studying 
their  guest.  Not  quite  able  to  make  up  her  mind  whether 
he  was  distinguished  or  common,  she  found  herself  antag- 
onized. His  voice  was  too  loud  to  suit  her;  there  was 
hardly  enough  deference  in  his  proud  air.  She  tried  to 
remember  whether  Fielding  had  ever  mentioned  this  fellow. 

"Mr.  Glinden  has  so  often  spoken  of  you,"  she  said. 

"You  have  driven  him  into  business,  I  see.  It  was 
my  intention  to  hurl  him  into  a  different  career." 

"He  had  visions  of  my  becoming  a  writer,"  put  in 
Fielding.  "Our  ambitions  those  days  were  essentially 
literary." 

"How  amusing!"  laughed  Beth.  "Did  it  want  to  be  a 
poet?"  she  said  banteringly,  turning  to  Fielding. 

Fielding's  eyes  rebuked  her.  "My  romantic  instincts 
have  been  safely  ironed  out  of  me,"  he  observed  drily. 
"I  have  abandoned  the  motions  of  poetry  for  the  more 
lucrative  poetry  of  motion." 

"An  epigram!"  exclaimed  Beth. 

"Tell  it  with  slugs.  Stick  xit  in  the  house  organ,"  said 
the  Blasphemer,  emptying  his  glass.  "Fielding,"  he  de- 
manded, "what  are  you  driving  at  in  your  business  any- 
way— if  I  may  ask?" 

"Power." 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do  with  it?" 


GOLD   SHOD  165 

"Enjoy  it." 

"You  have  a  hell  of  an  idea  of  enjoying  yourself. 
Power  is  the  thing  all  your  employees  hate  you  for  hav- 
ing." 

"Oh,"  thought  Beth,  "he's  one  of  those  Socialists." 

"Envy  me,  perhaps,"  answered  Fielding. 

"I  mean  hate.  They  all  want  want  you've  got. 
They're  disappointed,  and  to  be  disappointed  is  to  hate." 

"Well,  take  the  arts,"  replied  Fielding.  "The  medi- 
ocre in  their  disappointment  hate  the  successful.  There 
is  probably  no  greater  disappointment  in  the  world  than 
to  be  unable  to  express  what  another  succeeds  in  ex- 
pressing." 

"The  artist  gives  something.  He  creates.  He  en- 
larges life  itself,"  argued  the  Blasphemer. 

"So  does  the  man  who  runs  a  factory,"  said  Beth  im- 
patiently. 

"Certainly,"  said  Fielding,  coming  to  her  support.  "He 
gives  jobs  and  opportunity.  He  supplies  goods." 

"Drivel,"  responded  the  Blasphemer. 

Beth  surveyed  their  guest  with  an  amused,  superior 
smile. 

"What  would  you  wear,  if  it  were  not  for  woolen  mills?" 
she  asked.  "What  if  there  were  no  shoe  factories,  no 
steel  mills,  no  railroads?  Civilization  rests  on  its  indus- 
tries. If  the  industries  stopped,  progress  would  stop." 

"Oh,  sweet  complacent  mush,"  sighed  the  guest. 

"I  knew  you  would  enjoy  hearing  him  rave,"  said 
Fielding. 

"What  do  you  want?  An  end  of  the  industries?"  in- 
sisted Beth,  amused  again. 

"No,  I  want  plenty  of  smoke,  plenty  of  production, 
plenty  of  jobs.  I'd  just  as  soon  have  the  world  flooded 
with  merchandise,  more  of  it  all  the  time,  and  getting 
cheaper  all  the  time.  But  I  want  to  see  the  stuff  pro- 
duced by  fat-heads  who  can't  do  anything  else.  I  hate 
to  see  Fielding  driven  to  it  by  this  craze  for  power,  and, 
if  you  will  pardon  me,  by  an  ambitious  wife."  He  drank. 


166  GOLD    SHOD 

"  'An  ambitious  wife%"  said  Beth,  nettled  beyond  dis- 
cretion, "is  rather  essential  to  a  man's  career.  I  happen 
to  know  that  it  has  been  no  misfortune  to  Fielding  that 
I  am  ambitious." 

In  the  silence  which  followed,  Fielding  heard  Beth's  toe 
tap-tapping  the  chenille,  and  wondered  why  that  faint, 
familiar  pulse  of  sound  had  never  before  played  so  arro- 
gantly on  his  nerves.  It  took  an  effort  of  will  to  with- 
draw his  mind  from  the  sudden  contemplation  of  an  emerg- 
ing revelation  of  his  position  with  this  woman.  He  saw 
the  Blasphemer  gazing  non-committally  into  his  empty 
glass,  and  from  force  of  habit  sent  the  butler  a  reminding 
signal.  Then  he  was  able  to  turn  to  Beth  and  remark 
with  self-possession: 

"The  Blasphemer  here  is  going  down  to  New  York  to 
write  a  play." 

"We  shall  attend  its  premiere"  said  Beth  sweetly. 

The  Blasphemer  bowed. 

"But  that  takes  time,"  said  Fielding.  "Meanwhile 
you've  got  to  live." 

"There  are  plenty  of  swine  who  will  be  glad  to  employ 
me." 

"Here's  one  who  will  be  glad  to  endow  you." 

"It  would  destroy  me.  I'd  soften  and  grow  weak,  and 
become  a  dilettant  and  write  rot.  I'd  become  a  solemn 
ass  like  other  playwrights.  A  perfumed  boudoir  would 
have  wrecked  Masefield;  what  made  him  was  to  have  to 
sweep  up  the  sawdust  in  a  bar." 

"But  you  aren't  well,  man,"  protested  Fielding.  "I 
don't  like  that  cough.  You  can't  perform  under  abuse." 

"I'm  not  a  machine.     I'm  a  flame.     I  burn." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Beth  was  caught  by  the  intensity 
of  their  guest.  It  was  not  lost  on  him. 

"Fielding,"  he  said  with  an  odd  simplicity,  "your  light  ? 
It  hasn't  quite  gone  out,  has  it?" 

"There  are  times,  old  man,  when  I  have  my  fancies. 
But  life  isn't  built  of  fancies.  The  deeper  you  get  into 
business,  the  tighter  it  holds  you,"  answered  Fielding. 


GOLD   SHOD  167 

He  was  conscious  of  Beth's  approval  before  he  heard 
the  Blasphemer  explode: 

"Weakling!" 

Beth  gave  the  Blasphemer  a  look  of  sleet. 

"Besides,"  said  Fielding  easily,  "I  owe  something  to  my 
wife,  you  know." 

"There's  no  limit,"  scoffed  the  Blasphemer,  "to  what 
wives  want.  When  they  have  everything  obtainable,  then 
they  fix  their  minds  on  the  unobtainable — bottomless  vats 
of  acquisitiveness." 

"Wives,"  Fielding  said,  "are  of  course  primarily  con- 
servative." 

"Wives,"  snarled  the  Blasphemer,  "are  primarily  pigs !" 


CHAPTER  XH 

BETH  had  let  herself  become  pregnant,  best  evidence 
that  she  now  regarded  Fielding's  position  as  secure. 

But  Fielding  was  not  elated.  This  new  life  on  its  way 
to  them  could  only  mean  another  fetter  binding  him  to 
Beth.  But  he  was  quick  to  perceive  that  with  Beth's 
attention  centered  upon  their  child  instead  of  upon  him, 
he  would  be  relieved  of  the  incessant  strain  of  Beth's 
concern  with  every  move  he  made  in  business.  It  would 
furnish  a  welcome  interruption  to  the  deadly  necessity 
of  thinking  business  and  talking  business  at  home  as  well 
as  at  the  office. 

Already  the  novelty  of  the  new  life  within  her  had  taken 
commanding  possession  of  Beth's  interest.  In  this  new 
freedom  Fielding  found  himself  reviving  long-suppressed 
temperamental  trends.  The  glimmer  of  old  tendencies 
began  sifting  back  upon  him  in  golden  rays.  The  embers 
of  smoldering  dreams  were  fanned  into  new  burning.  The 
banished  hues  of  old  friendships  with  books  began  lend- 
ing him  their  warm  luster  again. 

The  sleeping  artist  in  him  was  awaking.  He  no  longer 
saw  the  streams  of  motor  cars  on  the  avenues  as  com- 
posed of  power-plants,  chasses,  transmissions,  gears,  and 
steering-columns.  He  began  to  see  them  in  terms  of  form, 
line,  color,  rhythm.  He  became  acutely  sensitive  to  har- 
mony and  its  absence  in  the  structure  and  appearance  of 
cars.  Once,  when  designs  for  a  new  series  of  Bennetts 
were  brought  to  him,  he  went  over  them  in  critical  silence. 

"They  won't  do,"  he  said  finally.  "They're  ugly. 
See  how  you  break  up  your  lines.  Look  at  the  slant  of 
your  hood  with  reference  to  your  tonneau.  Look  at  your 
windshield.  And  there's  something  wrong  with  the  top. 
As  a  color  job,  that  roadster  is  atrocious.  It  jars;  it 

168 


GOLD   SHOD  169 

hurts.  I'm  not  enough  of  an  artist  to  say  what  is  wrong 
and  why.  But  this  stuff  is  faulty  all  the  way  through." 

The  chief  body  designer  scowled. 

"Let's  call  in  some  people  who  know  something  about 
these  things,"  snapped  Fielding. 

"We  have  one  of  the  best  body  engineers  in  the  in- 
dustry," said  one  of  the  vice-presidents. 

"It  isn't  right  pictorially.  It  needs  better  composi- 
tion and  coherence,"  replied  Fielding. 

These  practical  automobile  men  hardly  knew  what 
Glinden  was  talking  about.  But  they  sensed  that  here 
was  something  they  could  capitalize  and  merchandise, 
something  that  might  give  them  the  jump  on  their  com- 
petitors. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  the  sales  manager  with 
interest.  "Get  some  artist  guys  in  here  and  see  what 
they  can  suggest.  Let's  have  something  with  more  class 
to  it." 

Fielding  entered  upon  a  series  of  strange  consultations. 
He  talked  to  an  eminent  architect.  He  visited  the  studio 
of  a  famous  portrait  painter.  He  brought  to  the  factory 
an  effeminate  little  Frenchman  whose  fetish  was  color. 
He  summoned  a  noted  interior  decorator.  A  new  car  was 
born.  Its  "refinements"  were  in  marked  and  superior 
taste.  New  names  were  invented  for  its  various  color 
options.  A  search  through  the  terminology  of  India's 
and  Egypt's  conveyances  unearthed  striking  names  for  its 
various  enclosed  models.  A  new  advertising  agency,  cel- 
ebrated for  its  studio  atmosphere  and  artistic  work,  was 
retained  to  exploit  the  new  Bennett  car.  It  was  regarded 
as  so  much  better  than  previous  models  that  prices  were 
at  once  substantially  increased. 

Beth  was  delighted!  But  Fielding  found  himself  only 
vaguely  satisfied.  He  hungered  to  live  other  lives.  At 
his  desk,  he  kept  his  attention  focussed  upon  his  business. 
Away  from  it,  he  seemed  to  have  entered  a  different  world. 
Evenings  he  was  no  longer  the  brisk,  decisive,  dictatorial 
personage  he  was  by  day.  After  nightfall,  he  slipped 


170  GOLD    SHOD 

into  moody  detachment,  pensive  and  forlorn,  and  felt 
strangely  like  the  boy  he  had  been,  wandering  curiously 
about  the  streets  of  Chicago  at  night,  listening  with  dis- 
turbed rapture  to  the  voices  of  pianos,  looking  at  lamplit 
windows  and  lonely  gates,  gazing  at  the  skies,  humming 
melodies  of  his  own,  wanting  no  companionship  but  his 
own  reflections. 

Occasionally,  bored  with  motor  cars,  he  set  out  on  foot 
from  the  factory.  These  rambles  on  late  afternoons  in 
April  were  revelations  to  him.  He  discovered  that  he  had 
almost  forgotten  how  to  walk — he  had  grown  fat  and 
stodgy  in  his  own  cars.  He  grew  to  hate  the  arrogance  of 
motorists  toward  pedestrians,  and  to  look  dubiously  upon 
the  raging  torrents  of  cars  with  which  he  was  helping 
to  flood  the  country.  On  these  walks,  he  thought  often 
of  the  Blasphemer,  and  agreed  more  and  more  with  his 
blasphemies.  About  the  same  time — oddly  he  thought — 
he  began  remembering  Brenda  Olgarth,  and  wondered 
whether  he  should  ever  see  her  again. 

By  degrees,  the  president  realized  that  after  dusk  he 
was  a  different  man,  engaged  with  different  thoughts, 
reacting  entirely  differently  to  life. 

"That  Berlin  importer  is  here,"  declared  the  sales  man- 
ager to  Glinden,  having  rung  him  up  at  his  home. 

"Well,  what  about  it  ?"  asked  Fielding,  indifferently. 

"He's  got  to  leave  for  Chicago  at  midnight.  If  you 
can  arrange  to  come  down  to  the  club  and  talk  to  him, 
I  think  we  can  close  a  big  contract,"  urged  the  other. 

"I  can't  be  bothered.     You  sell  him." 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  the  other  disappointed. 
"What  shall  I  do  with  him?" 

"Oh,  take  him  to  a  movie." 

Fielding  called  no  more  night  conferences  with  his 
subordinates.  He  avoided  business  sessions  at  dinner. 
He  cultivated  a  different  kind  of  friends.  At  night  he 
wanted  people  about  him  with  creative  minds.  But  he 
could  not  tolerate  poseurs,  people  who  pretended  to  write 
or  pretended  to  be  musicians.  He  frequently  had  a  local 


GOLD   SHOD  171 

novelist  at  his  home,  a  young  mystic  who  had  come  through 
hell  into  the  beginnings  of  eminence  in  his  field.  He 
invited  visiting  virtuosos,  not  to  patronize  them,  not  to 
have  them  meet  his  friends,  or  to  show  them  off,  or  mate 
them  play,  but  to  talk  to  them  about  their  art,  how  they 
worked,  what  they  sought  to  express.  He  gladly  let  him- 
self be  imposed  upon  by  wandering  poets,  by  painters  with 
local  exhibitions,  for  he  now  felt  secure  enough  in  his 
business  position  to  allow  himself  these  liberties. 

To  these  follies,  Beth,  of  course,  objected  strenuously. 

"Why  on  earth  do  you  want  people  like  that  running  in 
here?"  she  demanded.  "They  do  you  no  good.  They 
just  work  you  and  waste  your  time.  They  all  remind 
me  of  that  insulting  Blasphemer." 

"They  rest  me,"  replied  Fielding. 

Fielding's  library  grew  by  jumps.  The  great  Russians 
found  their  way  to  his  bookshelves :  Tolstoi,  Turgenev, 
Dostoyevsky,  Chekov.  He  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
Shakespeare,  Marlowe,  Jonson,  and  with  Lamb,  Hunt, 
and  Hazlitt.  He  rediscovered  Goethe.  He  threw  open 
his  doors  to  the  sunlight  that  poured  from  the  volumes 
of  Jean-Christophe.  He  came  under  the  tantalizing  spell 
of  the  decadents :  Baudelaire,  Verlaine,  de  Gourmont, 
Sudermann,  Oscar  Wilde,  George  Moore,  Arthur  Schnitz- 
ler,  Anatole  France.  For  weeks  at  a  time  he  dwelt  with 
Thomas  Hardy  under  the  melancholy  skies  of  Wessex. 

Sometimes,  fortified  by  all  the  soothing  luxuries  of  his 
study,  he  strove  to  write — and  felt  like  a  boy  at  school. 
He  wondered  what  had  become  of  his  old  English  teacher. 
It  crossed  his  mind  at  times  to  get  in  touch  with  him; 
perhaps  he  might  do  something.  .  .  .  Then  he  would  re- 
coil from  the  patronizing  thought.  What  could  he  do 
for  a  man  like  that?  What  need  had  the  other  of  any 
favors — this  teacher  who  knew  how  to  comb  the  adolescent 
minds  of  Chicago's  Northwest  Side  for  sparks  of  under- 
standing, for  jets  of  genius? 

Fielding's  writing  flitted  from  form  to  form.  He  began 
the  outline  of  a  naturalistic  novel,  wrote  parts  of  the 


172  GOLD   SHOD 

opening  chapter,  then  threw  it  away.  He  wrote  frag- 
mentary things  without  beginnings  or  endings.  Some- 
times he  would  fuss  with  a  scene  for  a  play  or  with  verse, 
toying  with  words,  rhythm,  and  lilt. 

He  had  embarked  upon  two  different  lives,  the  one 
known  and  approved  by  the  world  in  which  he  lived,  and 
the  other  a  secret.  Only  the  Blasphemer  knew  of  Field- 
ing's divided  life. 

"I'm  after  two  things,"  Fielding  had  written  him. 
"But  instead  of  hating  one  of  my  activities  and  enjoying 
the  other,  I  propose  to  enjoy  them  both.  I  feel  that 
I  am  making  definite  headway  each  day  in  both  directions. 
The  one  effort  feeds  the  other.  They  seem  to  balance 
each  other.  I  too  shall  write.  You  will  hear  from  me." 

"You  poor  fish!"  roared  the  Blasphemer  in  reply. 
"Don't  talk  like  a  God  damn  fool.  Either  you'll  be  a  good 
business  man  and  a  vile  artist,  or  you'll  be  a  decent  artist 
and  a  rotten  man  of  affairs.  Do  you  think  you  can 
serve  two  masters?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

YOU'RE  crazy,"  exclaimed  Fielding  impatiently,  dis- 
missing the  easy  optimism  of  Wayland  Emmett. 
"The  thing  has  been  brewing  too  long.  It  will  last  two 
years,  if  not  longer.  We'll  have  a  hell  of  a  time  getting 
steel  for  cars.  By  God,  we'll  have  a  time  getting  men. 
Watch  them  try  to  produce  enough  munitions  to  feed 
fronts  like  these." 

Emmett  had  come  to  New  York  at  Fielding's  sudden 
request. 

"Do  you  suppose  for  a  minute  that  the  American  people 
are  going  to  do  without  cars?"  demanded  Emmett. 

"They'll  do  without  new  cars.  And  they'll  do  with- 
out a  lot  of  other  things  before  this  idiotic  war  is  over. 
I  wish  I  were  manufacturing  trucks !  They  need  trucks." 

"Why  don't  you  make  trucks?" 

"It  would  take  us  six  months  to  convert  our  plant 
for  trucks.  And  it  might  take  twelve.  By  that  time 
every  factory  now  making  trucks  will  be  loaded  down 
with  contracts  for  all  the  product  they  can  turn  out  for 
the  next  two  years.  We're  too  late.  There's  not  a 
chance.  How  does  your  crowd  in  Cleveland  feel?" 

"Not  so  good." 

"The  business  of  this  country  is  going  to  get  one  vio- 
lent churning-up,"  continued  Glinden.  "How  we're  go- 
ing to  meet  this  condition,  I  don't  know.  Nobody  else 
knows.  It's  going  to  mean  some  awful  grief — and  some 
huge  opportunities  for  some  of  the  men  who  can  act  fast 
enough.  Wall  Street  is  groggy.  My  brain  hurts  from 
trying  to  expand  itself  into  the  dimensions  of  the  thing." 

"My  own  feeling  is  that  the  demand  for  pleasure  cars 
is  going  to  keep  right  on,"  observed  Emmett. 

"Pleasure  cars!  Why,  damn  it,  if  this  thing  lasts  a 

173 


174  GOLD   SHOD 

year,  the  world  won't  even  tolerate  the  name  pleasure 
car." 

Fielding  had  moved  to  a  window.     He  turned  abruptly. 

"The  truck  manufacturers  must  be  poorly  organized 
to  supply  Europe." 

"What  about  it?  Trucks  will  sell  themselves,"  Emmett 
replied. 

"Nothing  sells  itself.  Not  now,  at  any  rate,  when  the 
whole  world  is  filled  with  fear  and  uncertainty.  Here's 
what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about.  There's  a  chance  for 
some  one  to  jump  in  and  force  the  representatives  of 
the  governments  at  war  to  deal  with  a  single,  compact 
American  sales  unit.  That  sales  unit  can  handle  the 
disposition  of  millions  of  dollars'  worth  of  trucks.  That 
sales  unit,  if  it  has  the  confidence  of  the  truck  manufac- 
turers, can  obtain  contracts  for  their  whole  output  of 
trucks  for  export  for  the  duration  of  the  war.  It  can 
tie  up  trucks  for  export  so  tight  that  both  the  Entente 
commissions  and  the  German  commissions  will  have  to 
deal  with  it.  It  can  get  trucks  at  the  usual  dealers'  dis- 
counts, and  sell  them  at  a  fat  premium.  Having  tied  up 
trucks  for  export,  it  can  do  the  same  thing  with  other 
necessities  of  war — munitions,  steel,  food,  shoes,  clothing, 
and  all  kinds  of  supplies.  This  country  will  be  the  sup- 
ply station  for  billions  of  dollars'  worth  of  stuff.'* 

"Can  trucks  for  export  be  tied  up  that  way?" 

"Why  can't  they?  I  tell  you  the  truck  people  aren't 
organized.  They  haven't  got  the  men  to  keep  camping 
in  Washington  and  in  New  York.  And  they  haven't  time 
to  train  new  men.  Some  one  will  act  and  act  quick. 
I'm  going  to  be  that  some  one.  Will  you  join  me?" 

"You're  firing  that  question  at  me  point-blank,"  coun- 
tered Emmett. 

"It's  got  to  be  answered  point-blank,"  said  Fielding. 

"I'll  join  you  if  we  can  get  the  right  contracts,"  said 
Emmett.  "It  will  take  capital.  The  manufacturers  will 
require  big  money  to  bind  the  contracts.  Have  you  got 
the  money?" 


GOLD   SHOD  175 

"Certainly  not,"  returned  Fielding. 

"Can  you  get  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  try." 

"What  about  Dufresne?" 

Fielding  shook  his  head.  "Dufresne  would  hog  a  thing 
like  this." 

"Has  Bennett  any  money?" 

"Bennett  is  raising  prunes  in  California  and  couldn't 
be  dragged  East  with  a  tractor.  Besides,  he  thinks  I 
double-crossed  him.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Marven  F. 
Hopewell?" 

"I  know  the  name." 

"I  have  an  appointment  with  him  to-morrow.  I  think 
perhaps  I  can  interest  him." 

Far  into  the  night,  Fielding  and  Emmett  tested,  dis- 
carded, or  tentatively  adopted  strategical  moves.  At 
eleven  the  next  morning,  Fielding  presented  himself  at 
Hopewell's  office  in  Nassau  Street.  The  financier  was 
now  about  forty-five  years  old — a  tall,  august  personage, 
with  a  calmness  becoming  to  one  who  had  inherited  a 
large  fortune,  who  had  doubled  it  in  sugar  importations, 
and  was  now  an  investment  banker  of  note.  The  watery 
blue  iris  of  his  eyes  surrounded  large  gleaming  pupils; 
his  gaze  passed  to  and  fro  over  Fielding's  face  like  the 
blade  of  a  knife.  Fielding,  who  had  fully  thought  out  his 
plan,  outlined  it  with  deliberation.  He  was  convincing 
about  his  own  and  Emmett's  qualifications  to  seek  the 
contracts.  He  enlarged  respectfully  upon  the  advantages 
of  Hopewell's  social  connections  in  diplomatic  circles  in 
Washington. 

"I'm  not  well  enough  informed  on  automobile  conditions 
to  be  much  of  a  judge,"  Hopewell  said  finally.  "But  sup- 
pose I  talk  to  Dufresne.'* 

"That  would  be  a  mistake,"  said  Fielding  firmly. 
"There  is  plenty  of  money  to  be  made  in  this  thing  if 
we  act  secretly  and  quickly.  Too  many  cooks  would 
spoil  the  broth.  It  may  be  too  late  even  now.  But  unless 
some  one  has  beaten  us  to  it,  which  I  question,  I  can  per- 


176  GOLD   SHOD 

sonally  guarantee  our  ability  to  close  the  contracts.  We 
should  require  immediate  credit  of  several  millions,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  should  leave  on  the  first  train  for  Detroit ; 
Emmett  would  go  at  once  to  Cleveland  and  Buffalo.  Tel- 
egrams would  precede  us,  outlining  enough  of  the  project 
to  enable  the  manufacturers  to  discuss  it  to-morrow  morn- 
ing with  their  associates.  We  would  be  able  to  wire  you 
as  to  the  results  of  the  first  interview  to-morrow  after- 
noon." 

"I'll  have  to  think  it  over,"  Hopewell  answered.  "On 
what  basis  do  you  consider  that  you  and  Mr.  Emmett  and 
I  should  share  the  profits  if  we  were  to  proceed?" 

"Forty  per  cent  of  the  net  for  you,  forty  for  me,  and 
twenty  for  Emmett." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Glinden,  but  that  wsuldn't  interest 
me."  The  tone  was  suave,  but  not  quite  final. 

"Very  well,  sir.  I'm  sorry  to  have  taken  up  your  time 
and  mine,"  said  Fielding,  rising  to  go.  "If  you  should 
change  your  mind,  you  can  reach  me  at  the  Biltmore." 

Fielding  left  Hopewell's  office  without  regrets.  The 
grasping  propensities  of  these  New  York  financial  men 
were  not  new  to  him.  He  considered  Hopewell  under  obli- 
gations to  him  for  placing  this  opportunity  within  his 
reach,  and  had  tried  to  make  that  clear  to  him. 

On  his  way  to  the  hotel,  Fielding  half  wished  that  he 
might  never  hear  from  Hopewell  again.  One  side  of  him 
protested  loudly  against  this  deeper  plunge  into  commer- 
cial affairs,  offering  stern  resistance  to  the  lust  for  gain 
and  power  that  had  recently  been  machining  his  ambition 
into  this  pointed  direction.  Now  that  the  reaction  was 
setting  in,  he  began  to  see  how  sharply  he  had  been  moving 
in  the  direction  of  Beth's  notions. 

Wayland  Emmett  listened  disappointedly  to  Fielding's 
report  of  the  interview. 

"This  man  Hopewell  must  be  a  stuffed  shirt,"  said 
Emmett. 

"No,  I  think  we'll  hear  from  him." 

At  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  Hopewell  telepiio^ad ;  he 


GOLD   SHOD  177 

invited  Glinden  to  call  upon  him  again  in  the  morning. 

"I  have  an  important  appointment  in  Wall  Street  to- 
morrow that  may  occupy  all  morning,  and  another  in  the 
afternoon.  I'm  sorry,"  replied  Fielding. 

"Are  you  free  this  evening?"  asked  the  banker. 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  not  run  up  to  my  home?" 

"Very  well." 

Wayland  Emmett,  who  was  in  the  room,  asked :  "Where 
are  your  appointments  for  to-morrow?" 

"At  an  old  bookshop  in  lower  Broadway,"  smiled 
Fielding. 

Five  days  later,  Glinden,  Hopewell,  and  Emmett  con- 
vened in  HopewelTs  office.  There  lay  on  the  desk  formal 
contracts  with  twelve  of  the  leading  truck  manufacturers, 
covering  their  entire  production  of  trucks  and  parts  for 
export  for  one  year,  with  renewal  clauses  providing  ex- 
tension for  an  equal  period  on  identical  terms  if  the  war 
should  continue  beyond  that  time.  The  form  of  the  con- 
tracts had  been  carefully  drawn  on  the  way  to  Detroit 
by  Hopewell's  attorney,  who  had  accompanied  Field- 
ing. 

Application  had  been  made  for  the  incorporation  of 
The  Motor  Export  Corporation  to  do  a  general  exporting 
business.  Glinden  was  elected  president  of  the  new  com- 
pany, while  he  retained  the  presidency  of  the  Bennett 
Company.  Emmett  resigned  from  his  Cleveland  connec- 
tion. New  York  offices  for  the  new  company  were  being 
sought  by  Hopewell's  agents. 

"You  men  have  moved  faster  than  I  expected,"  com- 
mented the  financier  with  satisfaction. 

"Mr.  Emmett  is  leaving  at  once  for  Europe,"  said 
Fielding. 

"What?"  said  Emmett. 

"We  can  save  time  and  money  through  direct  repre- 
sentation there,*'  explained  Fielding.  "The  state  depart- 
ment will  issue  a  passport  for  you  to-day.  The  Maure- 


178  GOLD   SHOD 

tania  sails  to-morrow.  We  are  cabling  the  various  war 
offices  that  you  are  on  the  way  over." 

"But  I've  got  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Emmett  about  a  trip  like 
that!" 

"There's  a  telephone.     Talk  to  her,"  said  Fielding. 

"Very  well,  I'll  obey  orders.  Mr.  Hopewell,"  he  added, 
"would  you  believe  that  a  few  years  ago  Mr.  Glinden 
was  applying  to  me  for  a  job?'* 

"I  wish  he  had  applied  to  me,"  said  Hopewell. 

Looking  back  over  the  founding  of  the  new  enterprise, 
Fielding  Glinden  came  to  realize  that  it  was  not  his  own 
will  that  had  driven  him  into  it.  Rather,  it  was  a  peculiar 
fascination  to  see  how  far  he  could  go  with  this  idea,  a 
curiosity  to  find  out  how  much  power  he  could  really 
exert. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  come  down  to  New  York  late 
in  July,  ostensibly  on  business,  but  in  reality  to  get  away 
from  Beth  and  his  business,  and  to  indulge  in  that  de- 
licious pastime,  when  one  is  in  his  thirties  and  loaded 
down  with  responsibilities,  of  sowing  a  second  and  more 
deliberate  crop  of  wild  oats.  With  a  delightful  freedom 
from  misgivings,  he  had  stepped  to  the  brink  of  New 
York's  glistening  stream  of  night  life,  cleaving  its  enticing 
waters  with  an  eager  plunge.  He  had  dined  and  danced 
with  numerous  magnetic  strangers,  had  made  short-lived 
love  to  sparkling  young  creatures  of  the  cafes,  and  had 
spent  a  luxurious  week-end  at  Long  Branch  with  a  girl 
so  desirable  that  the  parting  had  filled  him  with  keen 
regret. 

Into  the  very  midst  of  this  conge,  had  burst  the  world- 
roar  of  mobilization.  Automatically,  Fielding  had  thrust 
himself  into  a  warlike  consciousness  of  commercial  peril 
and  opportunity.  He  knew  now  that  it  had  reclaimed 
him  relentlessly  for  Beth.  Functioning  as  a  trained  busi- 
ness man,  he  had  again  become  her  puppet. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

conference  room  of  The  Motor  Export  Corpora- 
M.  tion  had  rapidly  become  the  scene  of  important 
meetings  between  its  officers  and  distinguished  emissaries 
from  abroad.  The  unusual  chamber  was  not  only  sound- 
proof, but  interruption-proof.  It  was  windowless  and 
had  no  telephone  connections  with  the  outside  world.  The 
unbroken  walls  displayed  an  extraordinary  mural  treat- 
ment— a  map  of  the  world. 

"Mon  Dieu,  you  Americans !"  gasped  a  French  general, 
upon  seeing  it. 

Fielding  was  practically  a  commuter  between  New  York 
and  Detroit.  Unwilling  to  relinquish  the  presidency  of 
the  Bennett  Motor  Company  even  under  the  pressure  of 
his  greater  responsibilities  in  New  York,  he  took  an  ironic, 
almost  malicious  pleasure  in  punishing  himself  with  in- 
cessant activities  in  these  fields  that  he  still  considered 
foreign  to  his  temperament. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  do  it,"  Hopewell  had  repeatedly 
remarked.  "I  think  you're  making  a  mistake  to  retain 
that  Detroit  presidency,  but  I'm  giving  you  credit  for 
knowing  how  far  you  can  push  yourself.  You're  one 
of  those  fortunate  devils  with  nothing  but  business  on  the 
brain.  And  by  Jove,  you  thrive  upon  it.  I  fancy  you 
have  never  had  a  distracting  thought  in  your  life.  I 
marvel  that  you  ever  took  time  to  marry  that  charming 
wife  of  yours.  I  imagine  that  you  see  so  little  of  her 
that  you  could  use  a  letter  of  introduction." 

"The  first  consignment  of  Bennett  trucks  will  be  ready 
to  ship  a  week  from  to-day,"  was  Fielding's  careless 
reply. 

"Bennett  trucks?  I  didn't  know  your  plant  could 
make  trucks." 

179 


180  GOLD   SHOD 

"We  found  a  way  to  do  it." 

"What  have  you  got?     A  magic  carpet?" 

"We  work,"  said  Fielding. 

"Then  you'd  better  sign  a  contract  with  yourself  on 
behalf  of  The  Motor  Export  Corporation  for  all  the 
trucks  you  can  build." 

"I  have  done  so." 

"Glinden,  I'm  glad  you  induced  me  to  go  into  business 
with  you.  But  on  the  other  hand,  you  need  some  relaxa- 
tion. I'm  having  a  little  party  up  at  the  apartment 
to-night.  Some  engaging  girls.  I'm  counting  on  your 
being  there." 

"Sorry.  I'm  leaving  on  to-day's  Wolverine  for  De- 
troit." 

"You're  too  moral.     Don't  you  ever  relax?" 

Fielding  and  Dufresne  shared  the  same  stateroom  to 
Detroit. 

"How  are  you  making  out  with  your  export  business?" 
inquired  Fielding's  massive  traveling  companion. 

"Quite  successfully.  We're  getting  pretty  well  organ- 
ized. Our  merchandising  problem  is  fairly  simple.  The 
subject  of  credits  doesn't  bother  us;  we  do  a  cash  busi- 
ness and  assume  no  delivery  risks  whatever." 

"There  has  been  some  criticism  of  you  for  dividing 
your  time  between  these  two  businesses,"  remarked  Du- 
fresne. 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  Fielding.  "Do  you  feel  that 
way  about  it  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  have  no  desire  to  surround  my- 
self with  men  of  single  interests.  Your  ability  to  convert 
part  of  your  plant  for  the  production  of  trucks  shows 
that  you  are  not  neglecting  your  opportunities  in  Michi- 
gan. It  was  a  very  commendable  move. 

"You  are  a  man  of  a  good  deal  of  vitality,"  continued 
Dufresne.  "Don't  waste  it.  On  the  other  hand,  don't 
make  the  mistake  of  relying  too  much  upon  your  ability 
to  make  decisions  unaided.  That's  a  trap  that  has  de- 


GOLD   SHOD  181 

stroyed  many  promising  careers.  Keep  out  among  men. 
I  spend  three  or  four  months  every  year  talking  to  deal- 
ers. I  like  to  sit  on  their  porches  with  them  and  gossip. 
These  men  are  conducting  their  own  businesses  with  their 
own  money;  I  have  a  profound  respect  for  their  views 
because  I  can  believe  what  they  tell  me.  I  generally  dis- 
trust manufacturers  and  the  views  of  the  men  in  my  own 
organizations.  The  former  usually  try  to  mislead  me, 
and  the  latter  usually  tell  me  what  they  think  I  want  to 
hear.  But  I  know  I  am  getting  the  truth  at  Iowa  or 
Indiana  crossroads." 

"Exactly,"  agreed  Fielding,  gazing  with  renewed  inter- 
est at  the  hulk  of  a  man  before  him.  "Your  methods  are 
very  different  from  those,  for  instance,  of  Bennett.'* 

"Bennett  relied  too  much  on  his  own  inspiration.  I 
never  do.  I  don't  lay  claim  to  any  special  wisdom  and  I'm 
not  a  genius.  I  can't  make  a  quick  decision.  I  never  de- 
cide a  question  until  I've  looked  at  it  through  the  eyes 
of  hundreds  of  the  dealers  and  the  thousands  of  car  own- 
ers I've  talked  to.  I'm  'Aleck'  to  any  number  of  these 
fellows,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  I'd  rather  chew  the  rag  for 
five  minutes  with  the  owner  of  some  wayside  garage  than 
hear  J.  P.  Morgan  talk  finances  for  five  hours.  It's 
the  plain  people  of  this  country  that  count." 

"What's  going  to  happen  to  the  automobile  industry 
after  the  war?"  asked  Fielding. 

Duf  resne  made  a  downward  gesture  with  his  big  hands. 
"The  industry  is  going  to  be  drunk  with  prosperity  for  a 
while.  Most  manufacturers  are  going  to  lose  their  heads. 
And  then  there's  going  to  be  a  slump.  You  can't  destroy 
wealth  without  paying  for  it,  and  I  look  for  a  panic. 
This  industry  will  be  especially  hard  hit  because  it  will 
be  hard  to  trim  the  sails  during  a  period  such  as  this  of 
abnormal  production  regardless  of  cost.  Those  of  us  who 
can  see  what  is  coming  must  exert  a  steadying  and  stabiliz- 
ing influence,"  declared  the  consolidator. 

Other  business  men  would  gladly  have  paid  for  the  priv- 
ilege of  making  such  a  journey  with  the  great  consolida- 


182  GOLD    SHOD 

tor;  but  as  the  train  roared  on,  Fielding  was  tempted  to 
shriek  out  in  protest.  At  length  the  language  of  his  com- 
panion sounded  strange  in  his  ears.  At  Buffalo,  Du- 
fresne  was  still  talking,  pouring  his  gospel  of  mass  pro- 
duction into  Fielding's  ears,  until  the  listener  felt  as  if 
he  were  chained  and  being  fed  upon  by  this  gargantuan 
vulture  of  affairs. 

He  breakfasted  with  Dufresne  on  the  train  and  listened 
to  some  more  earnestly-stated  facts  about  merchandis- 
ing. But  it  was  a  relief  to  be  in  the  diner  where  he  could 
at  least  see  some  women.  His  eyes  traveled  from  one 
to  another,  and  soon  fixed  upon  one  of  them.  Her  back 
was  turned;  the  lines  of  her  blue  velvet  dress  refreshed 
him;  her  cheek  had  charm.  He  looked  closer,  and  saw 
that  it  was  Peggie  Sheehan. 

Fielding  went  to  her. 

"Hello!  I  wish  I  had  known  you  were  aboard,'*  he 
said. 

"Well,  cutie!"  replied  the  other,  looking  at  him  with 
delight  and  offering  her  hand. 

He  gazed  at  her  with  famished  eyes. 

"I'm  mad  at  you,"  she  returned.  "You  haven't  looked 
me  up  in  a  year." 

"I've  been  swamped  with  work." 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  be  in  Detroit?"  she  de- 
manded. "About  a  day,  I  suppose.  'Saturday  flit,  short 
sit.' " 

"Long  enough  to  renew  my  friendship  with  you,  little 
charmer." 

"You'd  better,"  she  said,  touching  his  hand  quickly  with 
hers. 

Her  vague  perfume  made  enchanting  inroads  upon  his 
imagination.  He  could  almost  feel  her  smooth  forearm 
around  his  neck  again.  Her  eyes  were  bewitching,  her 
voice  consoling.  She  didn't  have  much  intelligence,  but 
she  knew  how  to  love. 

"Wifey  meeting  you?"  she  asked. 

"No." 


GOLD   SHOD  183 

"Then  come  on  up  with  me.     We're  nearly  in." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  he  answered.     "But  I'm  with  a  man." 

"Shake  him." 

"I'll  try." 

"I'm  in  the  second  coach  back.  I'll  wait  there,"  said 
Peggie. 

Fielding  returned  to  his  own  coach  with  Dufresne. 

"I  thought  I'd  run  up  to  the  house  and  get  into  some 
fresh  clothes,"  he  said,  when  the  train  was  pulling  into  the 
station. 

"All  right.  Suppose  you  pick  me  up  at  my  hotel  at 
half  past  ten.  The  directors'  meeting  is  set  for  eleven." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

With  singular  eagerness,  Fielding  made  his  way  to 
Peggie's  coach,  and  together  they  entered  a  taxi  and  drove 
to  her  apartment. 

It  was  an  evening  of  apple  blossoms  and  coral  skies. 
Fielding  and  Beth  were  seated  on  a  rustic  bench  on  their 
lawn. 

"We've  become  almost  strangers  to  each  other,"  said 
Beth.  "It's  a  pity  for  you  to  have  to  be  separated 
so  much  from  the  baby.  He's  getting  cuter  every 
day." 

"Yes,  I  know.  We'll  open  an  establishment  in  New 
York  early  in  the  fall  and  all  be  together." 

"Are  you  sure  you  want  to  be?" 

Fielding  looked  at  her  closely.  "Certainly.  Why 
shouldn't  I?" 

"I  don't  want  a  thing  to  interfere  with  your  business." 

Fielding  felt  the  chains  of  responsibility,  which  had 
fallen  marvelously  away  from  him  during  his  morning 
visit  with  Peggie,  tightening  around  him  once  more. 

"Sometimes  I  can  hardly  realize  that  you're  accomp- 
lishing all  these  great  tilings,"  continued  Beth.  "Nothing 
must  interfere." 

"Too  bad  I've  had  to  neglect  you  so  much  of  late." 

"What's  this  ?"  asked  Beth,  picking  up  a  card  that  had 


184  GOLD    SHOD 

fallen  to  the  ground  when  Fielding  drew  a  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  replied,  reaching  for  it. 

Beth  looked  sharply  at  the  card.  It  bore  the  name 
"Peggie"  and  telephone  number.  She  directed  a  search- 
ing look  at  Fielding. 

"Peggie?"  she  asked  inquisitively. 

"A  37oung  woman  I  met  on  the  train  this  morning." 

"What  sort  of  a  young  woman?" 

"Oh,  just  a  girl  that  used  to  sell  me  flowers.  Wants 
me  to  patronize  her  flower-stand  again." 

"Oh,  this  is  her  business  phone?'* 

"Presumably." 

"But  this  is  a  residence  exchange." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Fielding,  I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Beth,  with  a  hard, 
examining  look. 

"Good  Lord,  you  don't  suppose  Fm  running  after  an 
ordinary  little  sales  clerk?" 

"I  should  hate  to." 

"Then  forget  it.  I  have  worries  enough  without  being 
accused  of  this  sort  of  thing,"  exclaimed  Fielding,  irri- 
table in  spite  of  himself. 

"What  makes  you  angry?" 

Fielding  took  a  turn  on  the  lawn,  then  faced  her. 
"Now  look  here,  Beth,  you're  laboring  under  an  absurd 
notion.  Dismiss  it.  If  you  think  for  five  minutes  that 
I  have  time  to  chase  women,  get  over  it.  Why,  you've 
driven  and  driven  and  driven  me  deeper  and  deeper  into 
business  until  I'm  so  surrounded  with  responsibilities  that 
I  can't  think  of  anything  else." 

Beth  gasped.  "What  did  you  want  to  do — remain  a 
cheap  little  clerk?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  complaining.  I'm  simply  telling  you 
that  I  haven't  the  time  for  philandering,  even  if  I  had 
the  inclination.  And  under  the  circumstances,  it's  a 
damned  ungracious  thing  of  you  to  talk  to  me  like  this." 
He  thrust  his  hands  angrily  into  his  pockets. 


GOLD   SHOD  185 

Beth's  eyes  blazed.     Her  face  had  gone  white. 

"Let  me  tell  you  this,"  she  said  sternly.  "I  know  a 
thing  or  two  about  men.  I  know  they  aren't  saints.  If 
you  ever  do  try  any  funny  business,  don't  you  dare 
humiliate  me  by  falling  for  a  common  little  strumpet. 
I'd  never  forgive  you.  The  idea  of  you>r  having  a  card 
like  this  in  your  pocket!"  she  ended,  tearing  it  into  bits 
that  scattered  on  the  grass. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  the  following  months,  as  the  baby  made  fewer  and 
fewer  demands  on  her  time,  Beth  became  increasingly 
engrossed  in  her  plans  for  a  New  York  establishment. 
In  October  they  took  a  house  in  East  Sixtieth  Street, 
and  hired  a  butler,  a  cook,  a  French  maid  for  Beth,  a 
nurse  for  the  baby,  and  a  chauffeur.  Fielding's  mother 
came  on  for  a  visit;  so  did  Beth' s  mother  and  Ellis. 
These  visitors  all  rejoiced  over  Fielding's  achievements, 
and  fairly  gloated  over  the  magnificence  in  which  he  and 
Beth  were  living. 

The  first  fiscal  year  of  The  Motor  Export  Corporation 
had  shown  profits  of  more  than  two  million  dollars,  and 
Fielding's  office  had  become  the  rendezvous  of  Allied  High 
Commissioners.  He  had  made  a  brief  trip  to  London, 
and  had  spent  weeks  at  a  time  in  Washington. 

Beth,  who  had  counted  upon  a  resumption  of  her  for- 
mer close  business  partnership  with  her  husband  when 
they  should  move  to  New  York  was  deeply  disappointed 
to  find  that  things  did  not  work  out  that  way.  She  felt 
more  and  more  neglected  and  out  of  it.  She  considered 
herself  the  builder  of  Fielding's  success  and  viewed  with 
embittered  resentment  his  growing  avoidance  of  discussing 
business  matters  with  her.  Her  child,  her  home,  her  cars, 
clothes,  jewels,  and  receptions  did  not  compensate  her  for 
being  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  strategies  behind  these  vast 
shipments  of  supplies  to  Europe. 

"What  did  Mr.  Hopewell  want?"  she  inquired  when 
Fielding  rejoined  her  in  the  library  after  a  long  telephone 
conversation. 

"We've  got  to  see  a  couple  of  jabbering  Frenchmen  in 
the  morning." 

"How  are  the  new  trucks  standing  up?" 

186 


GOLD   SHOD  187 

"Pretty  well.  Now,  for  heaven's  sake  don't  ask  me 
to  go  over  all  that  again !  It  interests  me  a  good  deal 
more  to  know  how  this  Italian  furniture  is  standing  up." 

Beth  gave  him  a  tragic  look.  "You  never  take  me  into 
your  confidence  any  more,"  she  complained. 

"I  haven't  the  strength  to  sit  here  and  hash  over  every 
phase  of  the  business  with  you." 

"You  used  to  be  very  glad  to.  And  I  was  of  help  to 
you,  if  I  do  say  it  myself." 

"I  owe  everything  I've  got  to  you,"  admitted  Fielding. 

Beth's  face  brightened. 

"And  you  have  certainly  not  permitted  me  to  forget  it. 
Now  that  you've  made  a  human  cash  register  out  of  me, 
I  hope  you're  happy,"  he  added  lightly. 

"That's  a  nasty  remark  to  make  to  me,"  Beth  spoke 
in  a  tone  of  disillusion.  "To  hear  you  talk,  one  would 
think  that  to  be  president  of  two  wonderful  concerns  in- 
stead of  assistant  to  a  mere  sales  manager  is  a  sort  of 
martyrdom." 

Before  going  to  bed,  Fielding  went  to  the  front  of  the 
house,  unlocked  the  ponderous  iron  doors,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  cool  entrance.  The  fashionable  street  was 
now  quiet.  He  thought  of  his  boyhood  wanderings 
through  Chicago  streets  at  night,  gazing  at  ruddy  window- 
panes  and  listening  for  the  voices  of  pianos.  He  had 
been  far  happier  during  those  lonely,  meditative  years. 

He  re-entered  the  house  and  locked  the  forbidding 
doors.  Upstairs,  he  paused  at  the  baby's  bedroom  beside 
the  nursery.  The  baby  was  a  boy ;  they  had  named  him 
Carter,  after  Beth's  father.  Fielding  perceived  in  Car- 
ter the  same  shyness,  the  same  sadness  and  peculiar  reac- 
tions to  music  and  sun  and  evening,  the  same  recoil  from 
sternness,  that  had  characterized  his  own  early  years. 

Standing  beside  Carter's  bedside,  Fielding  could  almost 
picture  to  himself  the  dreams  that  wove  through  the  mind 
of  his  son,  the  nightmares  that  still  lingered  in  grotesque, 
uncomprehended  droves  from  the  months  of  imprisonment 
in  the  womb,  and  were  now  clashing  with  forebodings  of 


188  GOLD   SHOD 

the  struggles  and  fears  of  the  future.  As  he  watched 
the  baby  from  day  to  day  Fielding  had  been  oppressed 
by  the  tragedies  of  being  so  young, — the  tragedies  of 
shut  doors,  of  great  heads  of  adults  wagging  "no"  to  him, 
of  coveted  objects  beyond  his  reach,  of  the  blackness  of 
the  bedchamber  at  night,  the  abrupt  departure  of  loved 
faces.  He  could  understand  the  fear  that  must  have 
clutched  at  Carter's  heart  as  he  imagined  terrible  beings 
crouching  behind  clocks  and  under  rugs  and  behind  chairs 
and  pictures.  Fielding  wished  deeply  he  could  have 
viewed  this  child  with  simple,  unimaginative  paternal 
pride.  But  he  saw  more,  felt  more,  imagined  more.  He 
wondered  what  lasting  impressions  were  stealing  into  Car- 
ter's soul,  to  sow  their  dark  seeds  of  discontent,  to  keep 
him  harassed  and  distraught  with  subconscious  forces 
that  never  could  be  measured  or  understood. 

Fielding  went  to  bed,  but  could  not  sleep.  His  terrific 
application  to  work  had  been  weakening  and  pulling  him 
down.  His  mind  continued  to  teem  with  a  world  of  de- 
tails; they  swarmed  through  him  ceaselessly,  making  his 
broken  sleep  jumpy  and  distracted.  With  his  will  no 
longer  master,  his  unfinished  tasks  beat  down  upon  him 
like  furies,  filling  the  dark  hours  with  torturing  anxieties 
that  dramatized  themselves  into  terrifying  pantomime. 
It  seemed  at  times  that  he  must  jump  to  his  feet  and  cry 
out. 

In  the  morning,  he  rose  unrested,  his  nerves  sore.  He 
limped  into  the  bathroom  and  let  a  comforting  stream 
from  the  hot  shower  pour  against  the  base  of  his  skull. 
Suddenly  he  gave  a  cry.  A  pain  had  jabbed  him  in  the 
side  like  a  sword.  He  emerged  from  his  bath  weak  and 
shaky.  At  breakfast  Beth  took  one  look  at  him.  "What's 
the  matter?"  she  demanded. 

"There's  something  the  matter  with  my  side.  Feels 
as  if  I  had  a  broken  rib." 

"You'd  better  see  a  doctor." 

The  discomfort  increased.  Within  a  few  days  getting 
into  his  clothes  after  a  night  of  pain  was  like  strapping 


GOLD   SHOD  189 

himself  into  a  strait-jacket.  Finally  he  called,  by  ap- 
pointment, at  the  office  of  a  distinguished  physician — tall, 
slim,  gray-haired,  business-like.  He  wore  a  white  jacket, 
and  sat  at  a  massive  walnut  desk.  Beside  him  was  a  nurse 
with  a  stenographic  note-book. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Glinden,"  said  the  physician.  "What 
made  you  wince  when  you  sat  down?" 

"I  have  a  pain  in  my  right  side.  I  want  to  know  what 
it  is,  and  how  to  get  rid  of  it." 

"What's  your  full  name?"  asked  the  other,  beginning 
a  rapid  bombardment  of  questions. 

After  answering  several,  Fielding  grew  impatient. 
"I'm  not  applying  for  life  insurance;  I  want  to  know 
what  this  pain  is.  I'm  in  a  hurry,"  he  interrupted. 

"It  has  probably  taken  you  a  good  many  years  to  ac- 
quire that  pain  in  your  side,"  answered  the  physician 
pleasantly.  "I  can't  extract  it  in  five  minutes.  I'm  a 
doctor,  not  a  magician.  What  time  do  you  usually  eat 
your  breakfast?"  he  added,  resuming  his  questioning. 

"Eight  o'clock." 

"What  do  you  eat?" 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  eat  for  breakfast?" 

"Perhaps  you  eat  fish  and  have  a  fish  bone  sticking 
you  in  the  side." 

"I  never  eat  fish  for  breakfast.  I  eat  fruit,  bacon, 
eggs,  toast,  and  coffee,  and  I  do  it  in  fifteen  minutes. 
Come  on,  Doctor,  make  it  snappy." 

"You  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry." 

"I'm  always   in  a  hurry." 

"That's  probably  why  you're  sick.  Now,  look  here. 
I  want  you  to  compose  yourself  and  answer  questions. 
There  are  nearly  forty  more  on  the  list." 

"Forty  more"?     Good  God!" 

"You  are  my  prisoner  for  an  hour,"  declared  the 
doctor. 

"That's  ridiculous.  Please  get  down  to  business,  or 
let  me  go." 

"The  door  snap-locked  behind  you,"  said  the  physician 


190  GOLD   SHOD 

genially.  "At  what  hour  do  you  usually  reach  your 
office?" 

Fielding  submitted,  tolerantly  amused. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  doctor  at  length.  "You  may 
take  off  your  coat,  waistcoat,  shirt,  and  undershirt. 
Then  you  may  lie  down  on  that  table." 

Fielding  did  so. 

"Your  skin  shows  lack  of  stimulation,"  observed  the 
examiner. 

"I  don't  even  have  time  to  take  a  drink  any  more," 
answered  Fielding. 

"Nor  to  take  a  walk,"  returned  the  doctor,  applying 
pressure  to  different  parts  of  the  abdomen.  "Your  kid- 
neys, appendix,  and  duodenum  appear  to  be  all  right. 
Take  a  deep  breath,"  he  continued,  applying  the  stetho- 
scope. "Say  ninety-nine.  Again.  Now  in  a  whisper.*5 
The  stethoscope  moved  rapidly  from  point  to  point. 
"Lungs  O.K."  stated  the  examiner.  "Heart  not  quite 
large  enough  for  your  body.  Turn  over  on  your  face," 
continued  the  physician,  dictating  from  time  to  time  to 
his  nurse.  "All  right,  you  may  dress." 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  asked  Fielding. 

"You  have  a  touch  of  neuritis.  One  of  your  ganglia 
is  kicking  up  a  little  fuss.  Nothing  serious.  There  will 
be  a  breaking  out  of  the  skin  half  way  around  your  body 
at  the  waist-line.  The  shooting»pains  will  last  for  about 
ten  days.  I'll  give  you  a  prescription  to  take  five  times 
a  day.  Get  all  the  rest  you  can,  drink  plenty  of  water, 
eat  less  meat,  avoid  excitement  and  worry." 

"What  caused  this  condition?" 

"You  did." 

"I  ?" 

"Yes,  by  trying  to  do  two  or  three  days'  work  every 
twenty-four  hours.  Work  that  you  are  not  overly  in  love 
with." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?'*  inquired  Fielding  with 
interest. 

"If  you  cared  more  for  your  job,  your  nerves  wouldn't 


GOLD   SHOD  191 

set  up  a  protest.  I  know  all  kinds  of  men  in  this  town 
who  work  as  hard  as  you  do,  and  it  doesn't  feaze  them. 
What's  your  favorite  amusement?" 

"Theaters  and  symphony  concerts.** 

"How  often  do  you  go?" 

"Damn  seldom." 

"Go  oftener.  And  go  alone.  You  can't  enjoy  a  play 
or  a  concert  if  you  are  compelled  to  carry  on  social  small- 
talk.  Do  you  play  golf?" 

"Not  unless  I  have  to." 

"Do  you  like  to  hunt  and  fish?" 

"Hate  it." 

"Ride  horseback?" 

Fielding  shook  his  head. 

"I  had  a  bank  president  in  here  the  other  day,"  said 
the  physician.  "I  finally  prescribed  a  dog  and  a  cane, 
and  he  now  walks  for  a  couple  of  hours  every  day  and 
has  the  time  of  his  life.  I  don't  suppose  he  had  taken 
any  exercise  for  years.  I  see  you  carry  a  stick,  Mr. 
Glinden.  Very  good.  There's  no  better  walking  com- 
panion. Medical  men  are  making  a  lot  of  fuss  about  re- 
pressions just  now.  And  I  find  that  the  most  universal 
repression  is  exercise.  I've  had  fellows  in  here  who  have 
even  forgotten  how  to  stretch.  I  cured  one  chap  of  what 
ailed  him  by  inducing  him  to  stretch  for  five  minutes 
each  morning. 

"It's  a  curious  thing  about  repressions,"  continued  the 
doctor.  "One  fellow,  it  appeared,  used  to  get  his  chief 
joy  as  a  poor  boy  in  buying  an  occasional  gallery  seat 
at  the  opera.  He's  rich  now  and  has  a  box  at  the  opera. 
But  the  solemn  gayety  of  the  horse-shoe  has  never  satisfied 
him.  I've  persuaded  him  to  go  alone  and  sit  in  the  gal- 
lery. He's  having  the  time  of  his  life.  One  Wall  Street 
man  confessed  to  me  that  as  a  child  it  used  to  be  an  ambi- 
tion of  his  to  ride  in  a  hansom  cab,  and  that  he  used  to 
stand  at  the  curb  and  envy  those  who  could.  I  urged 
him  to  forget  his  flock  of  motor  cars  and  to  roll  home 
from  work  in  an  old  hansom  cab.  He  now  has  a  cabby 


192  GOLD   SHOD 

pick  him  up  every  evening ;  he's  like  a  kid  with  a  new  toy. 

"You're  repressing  something.  Probably  an  early  im- 
pulse that  never  had  a  chance.  Maybe  you  wanted  to  be 
a  prize-fighter;  maybe  you  wanted  to  put  on  old  clothes 
and  bum  rides  on  a  freight  car.  Maybe  you've  wanted 
to  have  a  fling  with  another  woman — mind  you,  I  don't 
prescribe  that  sort  of  thing.  Maybe  you  wanted  to  be  a 
musician  instead  of  a  manufacturer.  Rockefeller  admits 
that  he  always  wanted  to  play  in  a  band.  Maybe  you 
wanted  to  paint  pictures.  I  know  half  a  dozen  executives 
who  get  out  and  paint  pictures  every  Sunday.  Whatever 
your  pet  repression  is,  take  some  time  and  give  vent  to  it. 
Have  the  time  .of  your  life.  That's  the  chief  medicine 
you  need." 

Fielding  looked  at  the  physician  and  gave  a  saturnine 
laugh.  "It's  easy  enough  to  talk.  But  your  advice  is 
no  better  than  your  pills.  Do  you  think  my  whole  life 
can  be  recast?  It's  too  late." 

"At  your  age?"  smiled  the  physician. 

"It  isn't  a  matter  of  age.  It's  a  matter  of  fetters. 
My  real  inclinations  are  on  the  shelf  and  gray  with  ac- 
cumulated dust.  I  don't  do  a  damned  thing  I  really 
want  to  do.  Why,  this  pain  in  my  side  is  a  joke  com- 
pared with  the  pang  that  I've  felt  ever  since  I've  been 
president  of  a  million-dollar  corporation." 


BOOK  THREE 
THE  WOOD-WIND 


CHAPTER  I 

THROUGH  the  gray  dusk  shone  the  yellow  lights  of 
innumerable  window-panes.  The  massive  buildings 
of  the  financial  district  loomed  like  crowded  cliffs  and 
crags — strange,  hollow,  mountainous  things  filled  with 
a  saffron  glow.  Fitful  snow-flakes  drifted  daintily 
through  the  air,  something  restful,  almost  feminine,  in 
their  wavering  descent. 

Fielding  moved  his  face  closer  to  the  cool  window. 
The  weight  of  his  weariness  ebbed  away  from  him  as  he 
contemplated  the  picture.  His  telephone  bell  rang,  but 
he  did  not  answer.  Some  one  opened  the  door,  but  Field- 
ing waved  him  back.  The  intruder  apologized  and  dis- 
appeared. 

The  lighted  hollow  peaks  and  summits  grew  almost 
lyric  in  their  appeal.  Fielding  was  making  idle  strokes  of 
a  mental  etching  of  the  billows  of  roofs  and  broken  sky- 
lines. Recalling  an  early  impulse  to  enroll  for  study  at 
the  Art  Institute  in  Chicago,  he  smiled.  Had  he  pursued 
the  impulse,  he  might  now  be  making  layouts  in  the  art 
department  of  some  advertising  agency.  Still,  it  might 
have  been  just  as  well.  He  put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat, 
descended  to  the  street,  and  told  the  chauffeur  to  go  on 
home. 

Fielding  stood  a  minute  watching  the  receding  car, 
glad  that  he  was  not  in  it.  His  wife  was  up  at  Lake 
Placid  for  the  last  of  the  season's  winter  sports;  Carter 
and  Mrs.  Ellis  were  with  her.  Fielding  had  promised  to 
join  them  for  at  least  a  week-end  but  had  invented  and 
wired  some  excuse. 

To-night  he  did  not  want  to  set  eyes  upon  his  house 
— its  Empire  furniture  and  golden  draperies,  the  silken 

195 


196  GOLD    SHOD 

blandishments  of  its  Persian  rugs,  its  heavy  lamps  and 
mirrors.  He  recoiled  from  its  grand  air,  luxurious  hues, 
and  attentive  servants.  He  felt  a  sudden  need  for  neutral 
hues,  vacant  spaces,  austerity.  He  craved  something  hard 
and  uneven  under  his  feet.  He  thought  of  monks  in  their 
bare  cells,  removed  from  all  the  impediments  of  beautiful 
objects,  intent  upon  the  murmured  beauties  of  the  inward 
word. 

In  front  of  him  was  Trinity  Churchyard.  He  stood 
gazing  at  the  ancient  gravestones. 

He  wandered  into  the  narrow  slit  of  Exchange  Place, 
and  strolled  on  through  Hanover  Square.  He  thought 
of  dropping  in  at  the  India  House  for  dinner,  but  changed 
his  mind,  and  strode  on  through  the  cool  March  evening 
toward  the  water  front.  The  big  warehouses  filled  the 
foggy  air  with  the  smells  of  coffee,  tea,  rice,  and  tobacco. 
From  the  shops  of  ship  chandlers  came  the  composite 
odor  of  rope,  pitch,  tar,  tallow,  and  leather.  Through 
dirty  windows,  he  could  see  the  bent  forms  of  shipping 
agents  laboring  at  dingy,  lamplit  desks  littered  with  ship- 
ping  documents.  An  old  woman  stood  weeping  in  front 
of  the  British  Consulate  because  her  son  was  within  to 
see  about  enlisting  in  England's  army.  In  the  windows 
of  saloons  were  signs  warning  the  passer-by  of  "spies, 
crime  and  coercion"  if  prohibition  should  become  a  law. 

Fielding  paused  involuntarily  in  front  of  a  chapel  for 
"seamen,  boatmen  and  others,"  as  though  half-expecting 
some  form  of  miraculous  comfort  to  come  to  him  from 
the  wooden  doorway.  He  wandered  on  through  the  damp 
streets,  his  thoughts  clinging  vaguely  to  different  ob- 
jects. He  stared  at  an  approaching  stevedore,  a  barge  of 
a  figure,  who  looked  like  a  composite  of  a  Millet  and  a 
Rodin.  He  stared  at  the  Munson  liners  at  their  docks, 
at  ferries  lunging  for  their  slips,  their  blunt  prows  send- 
ing gray  billows  of  foam  over  the  brown  waters  of  the 
river.  The  melancholy  horns  of  the  river-boats  blew  con- 
tinuously. 

He  gazed  with  peculiar  satisfaction  at  the  stolid  labor 


GOLD   SHOD  197 

of  loading  and  unloading,  at  the  bent  backs,  the  soaking 
wooden  sides  of  the  wharves,  the  slow  washing  of  the 
tide.  Perhaps  these  longshoremen  were  moving  some  of 
his  company's  cargoes.  He  remembered  the  vain  aspira- 
tions of  Beth's  father  to  build  ships  for  ocean  traffic. 
Did  no  man  ever  contrive  to  do  the  things  he  wanted  most 
to  do? 

Before  he  knew  it,  he  was  thinking  of  the  Blasphemer; 
it  was  nearly  a  year  since  he  had  seen  him.  He  entered 
a  little  tobacco  shop,  hunted  through  his  notebook  for 
the  Blasphemer's  telephone  number,  and  rang  him  up. 

"He  don't  live  here  any  more,"  answered  a  woman's 
voice.  "He  took  sick  maybe  six  weeks  ago.  It's  his 
lungs." 

"Where  did  he  go?"  demanded  Fielding  with  a  sinking 
heart. 

The  woman  gave  him  the  name  of  a  sanatorium. 

Fielding  hurried  to  the  Bankers'  Club  and  sent  a 
telegram. 

Vastly  depressed,  he  walked  down  Cedar  Street  and 
found  the  old  chop  house  where  he  and  the  Blasphemer 
had  dined  together  the  last  time  they  had  talked.  He 
found  the  same  stall,  sat  down  on  the  same  wooden  bench, 
and  ordered  dinner.  It  was  almost  as  though  he  sat  op- 
posite the  bracing  companion  for  whose  influence  he  felt 
such  need  to-night.  He  heard  again  the  other's  condem- 
nations and  intolerant  blows,  his  preaching  of  harder 
ways  and  more  glorious  quests. 

The  memories  bore  sternly  in  upon  Fielding.  He  saw 
something  heroic,  something  glistening  and  god-like  in 
the  unyielding  labors  of  his  friend,  who  had  beaten  himself 
into  this  wreck. 

The  curtain  had  already  risen;  the  somber  texture  of 
the  play  revealed  a  Russian  influence ;  it  was  distinguished 
by  tolerance  and  pity ;  foreign  to  anything  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  on  Broadway,  it  unfolded  with  amazing  sim- 
plicity. 


198  GOLD   SHOD 

A  young  woman  playing  a  minor  role  had  been  on  the 
stage  several  times  before  she  particularly  arrested 
Fielding's  attention.  At  her  third  entrance,  she  went 
to  the  piano,  and  now  the  graceful  reverie  of  her  hands 
over  the  keys  reminded  him  of  Brenda  Olgarth.  The 
music  stopped,  and  recommenced  in  the  medium  of  the 
actress's  voice.  Her  personality  seemed  to  illuminate 
the  whole  stage,  and  lingered  like  an  actual  presence  after 
her  exit.  She  played  her  subordinate  part  with  an  august 
melancholy.  He  left  the  barnish  little  theater,  grateful 
that  he  had  come,  and  with  the  feeling  of  having  set  foot 
on  familiar  ground  once  more  after  prolonged  and  tired 
wanderings. 

He  must  have  been  walking  for  an  hour,  and  now  he 
found  himself  in  Eighth  Avenue,  peering  into  the  darkened 
windows  of  cheap  bakeries,  laundries,  little  French  meat 
markets,  restaurants,  and  garment  stores.  In  a  drug- 
store he  saw  a  card  showing  the  colorings  of  a  hair-dye; 
he  remembered  having  seen  just  such  cards  in  Chicago's 
drug-stores  long  ago.  What  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  mind 
able  to  banish  its  troubles  by  dyeing  the  hair  on  its 
head! 

"Paper,  Mister!  Mornin*  Telegraph!  Racing  Ex- 
tra !"  cried  a  cripple. 

Fielding  reached  into  his  pocket,  and  handed  the  news- 
boy a  bill. 

"Ain't  you  got  no  change?" 

"Never  mind  the  change." 

"My  God,  Mister  1"  gasped  the  newsboy. 

Rain  began  to  fall.  Cabmen  hailed  Fielding,  but  he 
strode  on,  keenly  enjoying  the  swinging  walk  through  the 
rain.  He  was  humming  old  songs,  remembered  for  the 
first  time  in  years.  He  whistled  snatches  of  melodies  that 
must  have  sounded  strange  to  the  homebound  pedestrians 
he  passed. 

Fielding  bumped  on  to  his  valet,  drowsing  in  the  en- 
trance hall,  awaiting  the  return  of  his  master.  For  a 
moment  the  Englishman  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chairr 


GOLD   SHOD  199 

staring  dumfounded  at  the  rain-soaked  figure.     Then  he 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Good  gracious!"  he  exclaimed.     "God  pity  you,  sir!" 

"Not  at  all,"  laughed  Fielding. 

Fielding  rose  unusually  rested.  His  brain  felt  as  if  it 
had  had  a  house-cleaning.  But  Hopewell  met  him  at  the 
office  with  a  look  of  anxiety. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Fielding  cheerfully. 

"That  Pittsburgh  matter  suddenly  broke  last  night," 
frowned  Hopewell. 

"Good." 

"I  don't  know  about  that." 

"I  told  you  they'd  come  to  us." 

"The  thing  had  to  be  closed  last  night.  I  met  these 
men  at  the  Union  League  Club." 

"That's  fine." 

"Not  so  fine  as  you  think.  Had  I  been  able  to  locate 
you  last  night,  the  order  would  have  been  worth  a  great 
deal  more  money  to  us.  Where  the  devil  were  you? 
While  I  have  no  desire  to  interfere  with  your  private 
affairs,  I  urge  you  to  leave  word  either  at  home  or  at  the 
office  where  you  can  be  reached.  You  alone  knew  the 
facts  that  would  have  enabled  us  to  deal  with  that  crowd 
and  get  what  was  coming  to  us." 

"What  price  did  you  close  at?"  asked  Fielding. 

"Twenty-seven  per  cent  off  the  list." 

"Delivered?" 

"No.     F.O.B.  Pittsburgh." 

"Subject  of  course  to  price  increases  without  notice?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Hopewell  drily. 

"You  didn't  do  so  badly,"  smiled  Fielding. 

"It  lay  between  us  and  that  Blunthaven  crowd,  or 
whatever  their  name  is.  I  knew  nothing  of  their  defects 
as  an  organization  and  couldn't  say  much.  You  could 
have  gone  after  them." 

"Well,  I  might  not  have  felt  like  it." 

"Why  not?" 


200  GOLD   SHOD 

"Oh,  I  was  in  a  generous  mood  last  night." 

"Don't  be  too  generous  toward  your  competitors,"  said 
Hopewell,  leveling  searching  eyes  at  his  partner. 

"Is  this  a  lesson  in  business  sagacity?"  asked  Fielding 
pleasantly. 

Hopewell  was  not  unaware  of  the  irony.  "I  don't  think 
you  need  any." 

Fielding  spent  the  evening  alone  among  his  books.  His 
gaze  roved  without  satisfaction  over  the  shelves  of  expen- 
sive bindings  which  Beth  had  from  time  to  time  added 
to  the  library.  Charles  Lamb  in  crushed  levant  seemed 
ridiculous ;  he  thought  of  Elia's  creator,  toiling  his  life 
away  a  clerk  in  London  counting  rooms,  living  in  morbid 
lodgings  with  a  crazy  sister  who  had  killed  their  mother, 
laboring  at  his  art  in  moments  dearly  bought,  and  now 
ranged  upon  shelves  in  gold-tooled  purple.  To-night  the 
irony  of  it  killed  his  pleasure  in  the  precious,  identical 
volumes  over  which  Shelley  had  meditated  and  Keats  had 
wept.  He  had  loved  to  go  to  his  own  library  at  any  hour 
of  the  night  and  handle  the  ancient  texture  of  the  very 
pages  which  had  comforted  Burns,  inspired  Wordsworth, 
and  enchanted  Victor  Hugo.  But  to-night  he  craved  a 
more  articulate  expression  than  the  mere  possession  of  ob- 
jects once  significant  to  the  lives  of  genius. 

To-night,  moreover,  the  whole  splendor  of  his  home 
was  an  oppressive  weight.  Its  pretentious  luxuries  rose 
between  him  and  the  books  he  tried  to  read.  The  massive 
rugs,  heavy  crystals,  imposing  chairs  and  tables  of  the 
library,  the  hangings  of  crusted  gold  and  black  velour, 
the  Georgian  clock,  the  Cloisonne  vases,  the  bronzes,  and 
paintings  in  ornate  frames, — all  craved  and  accumulated 
object  by  object — no  longer  soothed  or  contented  him. 
These  valuables  that  massed  themselves  round  him  now 
seemed  to  crowd  themselves  against  him. 

He  retreated  to  Carter's  nursery,  but  found  no  relief. 
Its  mural  phantasies,  its  multitude  of  toys,  deprived  the 
imagination  of  its  play.  What  an  offense  to  jam  the 


GOLD   SHOD  201 

mind  of  a  child  with  this  herd  of  impressions,  to  litter 
its  days  with  these  artifices! 

He  roamed  on  through  the  house  like  a  stranger  in  a 
museum.  Recoiling  from  it,  Fielding  had  no  way  of 
knowing  that  he  now  stood  in  the  heart  of  the  realization 
of  one  of  the  longings  of  Anton,  his  grandfather,  whom 
he  remembered  best  as  a  lonely  figure  who  played  Bach 
and  Beethoven  with  stiffening  fingers  at  dawn. 

Fielding  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  The  cares 
and  speculations  and  strife  of  his  febrile  career  inhabited 
this  lofty  chamber  like  embodied  presences.  They  roped 
him  and  dragged  him  back  to  his  affairs,  to  his  contracts, 
exports,  and  dealings  with  High  Commissioners ;  his  war- 
ring on  the  fringes  of  war. 

At  his  office  the  next  day,  he  upbraided  his  subordi- 
nates, and  avoided  Hopewell  and  Emmett. 

A  telegram  from  Detroit,  where  he  had  not  been  for 
more  than  a  fortnight,  urged  him  to  indicate  certain 
important  decisions ;  one  from  Frake  contained  a  number 
of  commands ;  but  Fielding  ignored  them  both. 

Dufresne's  office  tried  repeatedly  to  reach  him  by  tele- 
phone, but  Fielding  refused  to  authorize  the  connection. 
Trying  vainly  to  focus  his  mind  on  his  affairs,  he  sat 
gloomily  at  his  desk,  tortured  by  his  chains. 

He  dined  that  evening  at  the  quietest  of  his  clubs,  and 
then  set  out  aimlessly  for  a  walk.  He  found  himself 
proceeding  south  on  Seventh  Avenue,  and  felt  a  sudden 
friendship  for  this  thoroughfare,  shabbier  and  dustier 
and  cheaper  than  the  avenues  to  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed. Ahead  of  him  he  saw  the  big  Street  &  Smith 
building,  and  remembered  early  efforts  of  his  to  sell 
stories  to  these  publishers,  and  the  invariable  dishearten- 
ing rejections. 

He  strode  on  through  the  dry,  mild  spring  evening 
past  Sheridan  Square.  He  watched  the  slow  movement  of 
a  white-wing,  sweeping  the  pavement,  and  a  squad  of 
bill-posters  swabbing  a  bill-board  with  their  long-handled 


202  GOLD   SHOD 

brushes,  dripping  with  paste.  He  had  gazed  with  envy 
at  these  deft  operations  when  he  was  a  youngster  in 
Chicago,  marveling  at  the  smooth  rapidity  with  which 
the  big  sheets  were  sped  into  place  by  the  magic  passes 
of  the  poles  and  brushes.  Now  he  could  imagine  wearily 
what  feverish  merchandising  campaigns  formed  the  execu- 
tive background  for  this  overtime  labor  of  the  bill-posters. 

For  relief  he  stared  into  a  cabinet-maker's  window, 
pleased  with  the  workmanlike  exhibits  of  the  fellow's 
craft ;  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  know  a  trade.  Overhead 
hung  a  midwife's  sign,  with  some  lettering  in  a  foreign 
tongue — probably  Italian,  he  supposed,  but  for  all  of 
his  tides  of  exports  to  foreign  lands,  he  was  not  sure  of 
the  language.  It  was  years  since  he  had  seen  the  word 
"midwife."  He  thought  of  the  day  of  sleet  through  which 
his  grandfather  had  driven  to  the  bedside  of  his  last  pa- 
tient, a  woman  giving  birth;  and  he  recalled  the  return 
of  Anton  with  chattering  teeth,  a  dying  look  in  his  eyes. 

Fielding's  gaze  wandered  over  brick  walls  displaying 
huge  advertisements  of  Gold  Medal  Flour,  Spearmint  Gum, 
and  Coca  Cola ;  theater  bills  held  out  the  lure  of  current 
amusements ;  wash  flapped  on  lines  that  ran  from  window 
to  window  between  the  backs  of  tall  brick  tenements.  He 
roamed  on  past  a  little  red  shack  bearing  a  gasoline  sign, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  cart  of  a  green- 
grocer at  the  curb,  its  array  of  radishes,  spinach,  lettuce, 
and  beets  dripping  freshly  with  water.  Fielding  now 
became  aware  that  he  had  drifted  into  a  neighborhood 
that  he  had  never  seen  before.  It  had  an  air  of  charm 
and  quiet;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  left  fifty  years 
of  city  life  behind  him.  Was  this  New  York? 

A  row  of  refreshing-looking  houses  stretched  before 
him.  Some  of  their  iron  fences,  gates,  and  banisters  were 
painted  blue  or  green.  Some  of  the  houses  had  minute 
flower-gardens  beside  their  stoops.  One  especially  at- 
tracted him;  it  had  low  iron  grills  at  its  windows,  blue 
flower-boxes,  and  green  shutters.  It  was  cleanly  built 
of  red  pressed-brick,  pointed  up  by  slender  lines  of  white 


GOLD    SHOD  203 

paint.  There  were  snowy  glass  curtains  at  the  window. 
He  discovered  a  sign  "Apartment  to  Let."  For  a  moment 
he  hesitated,  held  by  the  sudden  thought  of  Beth  and  the 
baby. 

"I'll  have  a  look  at  it  anyway,"  he  said  to  himself, 
and  rang. 

An  elderly  woman  who  seemed  to  belong  to  an  elder  day, 
opened  the  door. 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  apartment,"  he  said. 

"It's  only  two  rooms  and  bath.  Was  it  only  for  your- 
self?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  upstairs  in  the  front,"  she  replied,  leading  the 
way.  "Unfurnished.  This  is  the  bedroom.  It's  a  nice 
apartment." 

Fielding  noted  the  clean  walls  and  high  ceilings.  The 
wooden  floors  were  a  relief  to  his  feet.  The  plainness 
of  the  brick  fireplace  was  charming. 

"You'd  like  it,  sir.  You'll  hardly  know  you're  in  New 
York." 

"It  seems  quiet." 

"At  night  you'd  almost  think  you  were  out  in  the 
country.  Of  course,  the  children  yell  and  play  across  the 
street  in  the  day-time." 

"What's  that,  a  schoolyard?"  asked  Fielding,  looking 
at  the  gray  stone  posts  and  green  iron  fence  across  the 
street,  and  at  the  swings  and  benches  and  strips  of  grass 
and  sandy  compounds  of  the  enclosure  beyond. 

"It's  a  municipal  park,"  said  the  woman.  "It  used  to 
be  the  cemetery  of  Trinity  Parish,  but  for  twenty  years 
now  it's  been  a  play  park." 

"I  suppose  that's  a  public  school  over  there  beyond  the 
park,"  continued  Fielding  reflectively,  trying  to  imagine 
Carter  among  the  young  foreigners  who  daily  scampered 
and  shrieked  in  the  park.  He  wondered  whether  Homeric 
dreams  glistened  in  the  eyes  of  any  of  these  young  Greeks, 
whether  there  were  any  sensitive  Virgils  among  the  Ital- 
ians. There  were  dingy  clumps  of  brick  houses  with  the 


204,  GOLD    SHOD 

eternal  wash  on  the  window-lines  and  foreign  women  lean- 
ing out  of  windows,  gossiping  from  house  to  house.  He 
supposed  that  he  would  be  unmolested  here. 

"What  street  is  this  anyway?"  he  asked. 

"St.  Lukes's  Place,  sir." 

"I'll  take  the  rooms,"  said  Fielding,  and  paid  three 
months'  rent  in  advance. 

He  paced  meditatively  to  and  fro  over  the  hard  bare 
floor.  Already  the  picture  was  working  itself  out  in  his 
mind.  He  would  have  monks'  cloth  at  the  windows.  Here 
he  would  have  a  simple  desk,  there  and  there  and  there  a 
chair.  Over  here  a  row  of  open  bookshelves.  A  picture 
here,  another  here;  on  the  floor,  a  single  hearth  rug. 
In  the  other  room,  a  bed,  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  chair. 
Nothing  more. 

With  an  air  of  delightful  proprietorship  that  neither 
his  home  in  New  York  nor  the  one  in  Detroit  had  ever 
afforded  him,  Fielding  began  exploring  his  new  neighbor- 
hood. Half  a  block  to  the  right,  the  charm  of  St.  Luke's 
Place  suddenly  vanished  at  the  intersection  with  Hudson 
Street ;  here  the  street-cars  were  the  dustiest-looking  con- 
trivances he  had  ever  seen.  On  the  corner  stood  a  men's 
coffee  house,  and  opposite  it  the  large  building  of  a  press, 
grinding  out  God  only  knew  what  books  and  pamphlets 
and  circulars  and  hand-bills.  In  the  other  direction  was 
a  candy  factory,  grinding  out  its  daily  tons  of  sweets. 


CHAPTER  II 

FIELDING'S  revolt  from  the  luxury  of  his  home,  and 
his  recourse  to  the  primitive  simplicity  of  his  new 
rooms,  proved  stimulating  and  restoring.  With  a  pipe 
between  his  teeth,  he  would  sit  hours  at  a  time  at  his  desk 
before  the  muttering  woodfire,  recording  fragments  of 
fiction  and  wisps  of  verse.  Between  the  bare  walls  of  his 
bedroom,  he  slept  as  soundly  as  a  day-laborer. 

Each  day  he  hurried  from  his  office  back  to  this  satis- 
fying retreat  with  a  marvelous  feeling  of  freedom.  He 
felt  again  the  old  shyness,  the  sensitiveness  to  impression, 
the  wonder  at  life.  He  discovered  himself  speculating 
about  the  future  with  all  the  suspense  of  eighteen.  After 
the  old  sense  of  romance  had  lifted  him  aloft,  he  would 
remember  with  a  start  that  he  was  a  father. 

Beth,  with  her  mother  and  the  baby,  were  still  in  the 
Adirondacks,  Beth  fancying  that  her  continued  stay 
would  bring  Fielding  to  them  for  the  promised  rest,  and 
wholly  unaware  of  the  divided  life  upon  which  he  had 
embarked. 

It  was  Fielding's  longing  to  see  Carter  that  early  in 
April  finally  took  him  up  into  the  mountains,  though  only 
for  a  few  days.  Beth  plied  him  with  questions  about 
their  home,  about  his  business,  about  the  servants.  Was 
he  being  properly  looked  after?  Were  his  meals  all 
right?  Did  he  miss  his  family?  Was  he  getting  about 
socially?  How  did  it  happen  that  he  had  remained 
away  from  Detroit  for  so  long?  How  was  Dufresne 
acting? 

Fielding  was  glad  to  get  back  to  the  refuge. 

He  sat  in  the  agreeable  freedom  of  his  room.  Some- 
where in  the  neighborhood,  apparently  in  the  same  house, 

205 


206  GOLD    SHOD 

he  heard  a  piano.  He  stopped  writing  and  listened  to 
the  tranquil  ease  of  the  playing.  What  was  it — some- 
thing he  had  heard  old  Anton  play,  something  Brenda 
Olgarth  had  played  for  him?  Once  he  nearly  remembered. 
Then  it  was  gone. 

Fielding  spent  the  remainder  of  the  week  in  Wash- 
ington, reached  an  important  understanding  with  the 
Italian  Mission,  conferred  with  British  ordnance  officials 
on  Sunday,  and  was  back  in  his  office  on  Monday  morn- 
ing. 

"Come  out  to  the  house  for  dinner  with  me  this  even- 
ing," said  Hopewell. 

"Can't.     I  have  an  appointment,"  replied  Fielding. 

His  engagement  for  the  evening  was  the  usual  one — 
with  himself.  On  the  stairs,  he  stepped  aside  to  permit 
a  woman  to  pass  him  on  her  way  down.  He  was  aware 
of  a  vague  impression  of  having  seen  her  before,  but 
could  not  place  her.  A  romantic  agitation  like  those  of 
his  boyhood,  swept  him,  but  only  for  a  moment,  and  he 
made  no  effort  to  meet  her.  He  asked  nothing,  wanted 
nothing,  needed  nothing  but  the  solitude  and  serenity  of 
these  unmolested  evenings. 

There  had  been  times  during  the  past  few  years  when 
his  passionate  pursuit  of  business  had  suddenly,  without 
warning,  veered  into  a  tempestuous  lust  for  women;  and 
he  had  entered  from  time  to  time  upon  brief  affairs.  This 
had  happened  abroad,  it  had  happened  in  Washington, 
and  in  New  York.  These  transferences  of  passionate  en- 
ergy were  quickly  satisfied,  over,  and  forgotten.  The 
fever  of  the  day  no  longer  reached  into  the  night,  feeding 
on  receptions,  operas,  and  soirees  of  rustling  silks  and 
seductive  shoulders. 

For  years  he  had  viewed  at  close  range  the  curious 
union  between  business  and  sex.  As  a  sales  manager  he 
had  quickly  discovered  the  importance  of  the  right  enter- 
tainment for  visiting  dealers  and  prospective  dealers, 
and  had  adroitly  supplied  their  wants — whether  seats  at 
the  opera,  a  concert,  or  burlesque,  an  evening  of  drinking 


GOLD    SHOD  207 

or  dancing.  And  his  dealings  with  government  envoys 
from  Europe  had  proved  to  be  much  the  same.  At  con- 
ference by  day,  he  found  them  astute  and  urbane.  But 
at  night  the  open  candor  of  their  vulgar  impulses  often 
filled  him  with  disgust. 

His  withdrawal  to  the  refuge  each  evening  now  left  him 
agreeably  marooned  from  this  after-glow  of  the  day's 
business. 

"I  have  punctures  in  both  lungs,"  wrote  the  Blas- 
phemer. "I  must  have  been  running  temperature  for 
months  before  I  knew  what  I  had.  A  string  of  hemor- 
rhages followed  by  an  X-Ray  of  the  lungs  left  no  doubt. 
I'm  down  here  blinking  at  more  landscape  than  I  ever  saw 
before  in  my  life.  If  I  get  well,  I  shall  be  famous.  If 
I  croak,  some  one  else  will  say  my  say  for  me. 
You  might  send  me  five  hundred,  if  you've  got  it 
handy." 

Fielding  wired  a  thousand  dollars  and  sent  a  lung  spe- 
cialist down  to  make  an  examination. 

"What  do  you  find  ?"  asked  Fielding,  on  the  physician's 
return. 

"He  may  live  from  two  to  four  months,"  replied  the 
physician  after  reporting  the  clinical  character  of  the 
case. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  he  can't  survive?" 

"It  hardly  seems  possible." 

Greatly  depressed,  Fielding  resolved  to  pay  the 
Blasphemer  an  early  visit.  Had  it  not  been  for  an  im- 
portant directors'  meeting  in  Detroit,  he  would  have  gone 
at  once. 

Fielding  stood  in  his  room  at  the  Statler,  looking  at 
the  familiar  outlines  of  Detroit.  He  noticed  that  the 
intersecting  paths  of  the  parkway  were  the  shape  of  an 
enormous  hour-glass ;  pedestrians  were  slipping  through 
it  like  grains  of  sand,  and  seemed  no  more  important. 
He  felt  deeply  changed  since  his  last  visit  here.  It  no 


208  GOLD   SHOD 

longer  seemed  important  to  be  providing  people  with  cars, 
nor  to  be  sending  ship-loads  of  supplies  to  the  battle- 
fronts. 

He  hardly  talked  to  the  company  chauffeur  as  they 
drove  toward  the  Bennett  plant.  A  flaring  cafe  recalled 
the  night  he  had  taken  Peggie  there;  an  office  building 
reminded  him  of  a  certain  robust  brunette.  One  of  the 
banks  revived  memories  of  Bester,  and  the  interview 
with  Frake.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  burlesque  theater 
where  he  had  taken  out-of-town  dealers.  A  glimpse  of 
a  sign  "Everything  to  Wear"  in  front  of  a  cheap  clothing 
store  recalled  a  drunken  dealer  bent  upon  stealing  the 
sign  and  shipping  it  home  to  Montana.  The  Palms  and 
the  Pasadena  brought  faded  pictures  of  social  calls  with 
Beth  upon  people  of  no  consequence.  Curious  names  of 
Detroit  streets  flashed  past — St.  Antoine,  De  Quindre, 
Staubin,  John  R.,  Chene,  Jos.  Campeau,  Serb,  Iron, 
Meldrum — and  Fielding  remembered  how  strange  these 
names  had  seemed  the  first  time  he  saw  them ;  these  names 
brought  back  patchy  revivals  of  his  earliest  impressions 
of  the  city's  sparkle,  with  its  attending  spur  to  his  own 
inchoate  ambitions  and  the  emerging  sense  of  alliance  with 
Beth. 

The  car  fled  on  past  the  gas  tanks,  past  the  enormous 
familiar  kitchen  range  of  a  big  stove  factory,  the  tawdry 
devices  of  the  amusement  parks ;  past  lunch  counters,  fruit 
stores,  peanut  stands,  drug  stores  with  their  "dyspepsia 
tablet"  signs,  dentists'  shingles  offering  "free  examina- 
tions," and  the  inevitable  motion  picture  theaters. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  all  this  enterprise  pleased 
him;  it  had  meant  an  abundance  of  easy  money,  more 
and  more  prosperity,  and  readier  markets  for  Bennett 
cars. 

"Detroit  keeps  growing  to  beat  the  band,"  said  the 
driver  with  enthusiasm.  "Some  city!" 

"  'Where  life  is  worth  living*,  I  believe,"  said  Fielding, 
cynically. 

"You  said  it." 


GOLD   SHOD  209 

Fielding  went  briskly  into  his  office  and  sent  at  once 
for  Pordek. 

"Well,  what  have  you  been  doing?*'  he  asked  the  engi- 
neer, opening  a  folder  marked  "Production,"  and  inspect- 
ing its  contents.  "I  see  we've  got  to  decide  whether  or 
not  to  make  these  changes  in  the  sub-assembly  lines." 

"The  contracts  have  been  let." 

"By  whose  order?" 

"Mine." 

A  look  of  doubt  and  questioning  swept  Fielding's  eyes. 

"You  wrote  me  about  an  automatic  machine  for  turn- 
ing out  screws,  gaskets,  small  gears,  and  the  like,"  he 
continued. 

"It  is  ordered.  It  will  pay  for  itself  in  twenty-three 
months  and  eight  days." 

"This  memorandum  about  our  forging  facilities.  What 
was  your  thought  as  to  that?" 

"To  double  them.     I'm  doing  it,"  said  the  engineer. 

Fielding  made  no  reply,  but  sent  for  his  vice-president 
of  sales. 

"What  about  this  distributor  mess  out  in  Iowa?  You 
wanted  my  judgment  as  to  whether  to  remove  this  man 
from  the  organization,  I  believe?"  he  began. 

"I  went  ahead  and  got  rid  of  him,"  was  the  half-apolo- 
getic answer.  Fielding  knew  that  he  could  have  settled 
the  difficulty  more  amicably,  but  withheld  his  criticism. 
"Then  suppose  we  settle  these  proposed  price  re- 
visions." 

"I  considered  it  a  mistake  to  wait  any  longer,  and 
took  it  on  myself  to  authorize  the  new  price-list,"  said 
the  other  a  trifle  uneasily. 

"I'm  glad  you  did,"  said  Fielding  with  relief.  "What 
progress  are  we  making  with  advertising  plans  for  the 
fall?" 

"That  couldn't  wait.  I'll  have  the  color-proofs  in  here 
to-day." 

"You  don't  seem  to  need  me  around  here  any  more." 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  Mr.  Glinden,"  answered  the  vice- 


210  GOLD   SHOD 

president.     "But  you  certainly  have  built  a  go-ahead  or- 
ganization here." 

The  vice-president  withdrew,  and  Fielding  sat  looking 
into  space.  A  tranquil  little  smile  hovered  at  the  cor- 
ners of  his  serious  mouth.  He  was  thinking  again  of  the 
refuge. 


CHAPTER  III 

SHE  was  brewing  a  pot  of  tea.     Now  that  Fielding 
knew  her,  it  seemed  inevitable  to  him  that  they  should 
finally  have  met. 

"You  like  the  name  Olah,  then?"  she  was  asking. 

"Very  much." 

"So  do  I.  That's  why  I  took  it.  It's  one  of  the  de- 
lightful things  about  the  stage.  One  is  free  to  choose 
a  name  that  expresses  one's  self.  How  can  parents  give 
a  child  a  suitable  name?  At  best,  it  can  express  only 
something  in  themselves." 

She  handed  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

"We  closed  last  nigh  I,"  she  said.  "You  did  not  care 
for  the  piece?" 

"It  was  unusual  stuff." 

"You  don't  think  I  did  so  badly,  do  you?" 

"You  were  fascinating." 

"But  you  saw  me  only  once." 

"I  was  afraid  to  go  again." 

"Afraid?" 

"That  I'd  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"And  were  you  so  terrified  at  the  prospect?"  laughed 
the  girl.  "Listen,"  she  said,  going  to  her  piano.  "I 
will  play  something  for  you." 

She  played  a  strange  little  air. 

"Do  you  recognize  it?"  she  asked.  "It  is  something 
of  yours  and  mine.  I  have  tried  to  catch  the  mood  of 
that  lyric  you  showed  me." 

"You  have!"  he  exclaimed,  delighted. 

"Did  I  succeed?" 

"Perfectly." 

"We  don't  collaborate  so  badly  then.  Wouldn't  it  be 
wonderful  if  you  and  I  could  collaborate  on  a  play?" 

211 


212  GOLD   SHOD 

"Immense !"  exclaimed  Fielding.  "I'll  go  you.  A  play 
with  a  star  role  in  it  for  you  that  will  put  you  on  easy 
street."  He  looked  at  the  low,  slanting  ceilings  of  her 
little  living-room. 

"You  are  thinking  how  poor  I  am,"  she  said,  following 
his  eyes.  "Never  mind.  Wait  until  our  play  is  pro- 
duced. Besides,  it  has  not  been  a  hardship  to  me  to 
be  poor.  I  rather  like  these  bare  spaces  on  my  floors 
and  walls." 

Fielding  was  thinking  of  the  bare  spaces  in  his  own 
apartment  immediately  below  hers — spaces  that  were 
bare,  not  because  he  was  poor,  but  because  he  was  rich. 

"For  a  writer,"  continued  Olah,  "you  are  much  too 
shy  about  your  products.  What  a  pity  that  you  are  not 
more  of  a  business  man." 

Fielding  smiled  without  answering. 

"You  are  twenty  years  behind  the  times,"  she  said. 

"That's  the  way  I  feel." 

"I  respect  your  sincerity  and  obscurity  as  an  artist. 
Never  fear,  your  following  will  come  to  you." 

Fielding  sat  gazing  at  his  companion,  thinking  of  the 
difference  between  her  and  Beth. 

"An  artist  does  not  choose,"  Olah  was  saying.  "He 
accepts  the  responsibility  of  doing  what  he  has  to  do. 
He  doesn't  reason  it  out.  Sometimes  he  whimpers  like 
a  coward.  Sometimes  he  rushes  crazily  about,  making 
arrogant  demands  for  what  he  considers  his  dues.  At 
times  he  lapses  into  a  cad.  And  then  come  redeeming 
periods  of  courage  and  understanding." 

Her  mood  underwent  a  change.  She  rose,  drew  her- 
self into  an  amusing  pose,  and  began  burlesquing  one 
of  the  Broadway  stars. 

"You  fascinating  devil,"  he  said,  watching  her  antics. 

"Behold!"  she  cried.     "I  am  now  in  the  pictures." 

She  began  a  pantomime  burlesque  of  a  motion  picture 
vampire. 

"How  is  that?'*  she  asked. 

"You  are  spoiling  me,"  he  said. 


GOLD   SHOD  213 

"And  why  not?  Has  no  one  ever  done  you  the  kind- 
ness to  spoil  you?" 

"No." 

"You  poor  man !     Look,  now  we  have  musical  comedy." 

She  mimicked  the  stilted  movements,  breathy  tones, 
and  trembling  chin  of  the  prima  donna  in  a  current  op- 
eretta. 

"Dine  with  me,"  he  said.  "You  have  earned  the  best 
dinner  the  city  affords." 

"I  am  famished,"  she  confessed. 

"Good.     Where  shall  it  be?     Ritz?     St.  Regis?" 

She  gave  a  cry  of  delight.  "I  have  always  wanted  to 
eat  at  the  St.  Regis.  But  wait.  Can  you  afford  such 
extravagance  ?" 

"I  can  afford  anything  to-night." 

"A  fairy  prince!" 

He  thought  of  sending  for  one  of  his  cars,  but  instead 
telephoned  for  a  taxi.  Together  they  rattled  up-town. 
New  York  looked  different  to  Fielding.  Life  felt  dif- 
ferent. He  felt  suspended  in  a  vapory  billow  of  enchant- 
ment. 

"Look,  it  is  raining,"  she  said. 

He  told  her  of  his  long  walk  through  the  rain. 

"It  must  have  been  a  lark !"  she  replied.  "We  must  do 
that  together  sometime." 

He  led  her  into  the  subdued  blaze  of  the  elaborate  dining- 
room.  Looking  at  her,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  must 
be  rooted  in  the  strong,  fertile  earth — this  blossomed 
thing.  His  eyes  roved  from  her  white  hands  to  her 
flaming  lips,  and  lingered  on  the  curving  line  of  her  flaw- 
less neck  and  cheek.  His  glance  came  to  a  stop  at  her 
eyes,  dark  with  the  smokes  of  melancholy  but  warm  with 
great  expectations  from  life.  Her  tilted  hat  of  black 
velvet  flamed  with  a  slanting  narrow  band  of  scarlet. 

Olah  sat  beside  Fielding  like  a  symbol  of  artistic  fire 
and  temptation.,  She  set  buried  bells  in  him  to  ringing. 

"You  belong  to  me,"  he  said  to  her. 

"I  want  to,"  she  answered  without  resistance. 


214  GOLD   SHOD 

A  roseate  week  passed  before  Fielding  spent  another 
evening  at  home  with  Beth.  She  had  had  plans  prepared 
for  an  elaborate  establishment  she  was  building  at  Lake 
George,  and  was  telling  him  all  about  it. 

"Aren't  we  fortunate  to  have  been  able  to  secure  this 
particular  location?"  she  asked.  She  enumerated  differ- 
ent people  of  importance  with  places  nearby.  Then  she 
said  suddenly:  "You  don't  seem  a  bit  interested,'*  and 
pushed  the  blue-prints  away  from  her  with  an  impatient 
movement. 

"You  have  everything  so  well  in  hand,  my  dear,  that 
there  isn't  anything  for  me  to  say  except  that  I 
thoroughly  approve  everything  you've  done.  When  were 
you  planning  to  return  to  the  mountains  ?" 

"I  thought  I'd  run  up  again  on  Thursday.  Why  don't 
you  motor  up  with  me?" 

"It  catches  me  at  a  bad  time.  As  you  know,  I've  been 
tied  up  evening  after  evening." 

Beth  looked  at  him  searchingly.  "I  understand  that 
you've  been  'tied  up,'  "  she  said.  "You  seem  to  be  taking 
your  new  ties  quite  seriously." 

Fielding  met  her  look,  and  waited. 

"It  seems  that  your  attention  has  not  been  entirely 
occupied  with  the  new  house,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 

"Unfortunately,  I've  learned  of  your  new  apartment. 
Why,  you're  almost  a  stranger  in  your  own  house.  I'm 
informed  that  you  are  practically  living  down  in  that  pre- 
posterous part  of  town.  I  suppose  you  thought  you 
had  picked  a  place  that  wouldn't  be  discovered.  Well, 
it's  discovered.  You'd  be  surprised  to  find  out  how  many 
of  our  friends  know  it  already." 

"It's  absolutely  none  of  their  business." 

"And  none  of  my  business,  I  suppose?"  Beth  began 
to  bristle. 

"I'm  ready  to  concede  that  it  concerns  you." 

"How  nice  of  you.  How  very  thoughtful."  Her  tone 
was  now  one  of  carefully  modulated  irony.  "I  always 
thought  you  too  proud  and  too  superior  to  expose  Car- 


GOLD   SHOD  215 

ter  and  me  to  any  such  scandal.  It  has  killed  a  cer- 
tain feeling  I  had." 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  caused  you  any  pain." 

"Sorry !"  mimicked  Beth,  thrusting  a  tapestried  has- 
sock away  from  her  with  her  slim  foot. 

Fielding  rose,  looked  at  Beth  wearily  for  a  moment, 
and  then  crossed  the  room  to  the  silver  humidor. 

"Cigarette?"  he  inquired. 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  an  affair  like  that," 
said  Beth. 

"I  took  that  apartment  for  one  reason  only — to  be  able 
to  get  a  little  rest  now  and  then." 

"Never  mind  the  alibis." 

"Alibis?  I  have  nothing  to  deny  and  nothing  to  con- 
ceal. All  this  damn  luxury  got  on  my  nerves.  I  had  to 
have  plain  rooms  around  me  for  a  change.  But  I  don't 
suppose  you  can  grasp  what  I'm  talking  about." 

"  'Plain  living,  high  thinking' — and  a  painted  snip  of 
a  Village  actress,"  sneered  Beth. 

Fielding  chose  and  lit  a  cigarette  with  the  care  he 
might  have  bestowed  on  a  cigar.  His  tone  was  suave 
again. 

"I  seem  to  be  very  clumsy  at  engineering  concealments 
of  this  kind.  I'm  sorry,  dear.  I  have  not  forgotten 
that  I  was  never  to  tell  you  about " 

"About  flower  girls  in  Michigan  and  cheap  soubrettes? 
Why,  I  don't  even  live  in  the  same  world." 

"No,"  drawled  Fielding,  "I  don't  think  you  do.  She 
happens  to  be  a  young  woman  of  unusual  cultivation  and 
refinement." 

"Have  you  stooped  to  conquer  any  waitresses,  Field- 
ing?" 

"It  appears  that  to  my  other  regrets  I  must  now  add 
remorse  that  I  have  exposed  a  very  fine  woman  to  your 
smutty  remarks." 

It  was  a  blow  before  which  Beth  recoiled,  rising  and 
moving  dizzily  to  the  door.  Fielding  started  toward 
her,  but  she  waved  him  fiercely  back. 


216  GOLD    SHOD 

"Don't  talk  to  me.  Don't  come  near  me!  I  hate 
you!  Loathe  you!  Despise  you!"  She  ended  in  a 
scream. 

He  did  not  follow  her  out  of  the  library.  He  was 
wondering  whether  what  he  felt  was  relief  that  she  was 
gone,  or  disgust  with  her,  or  sympathy  because  of  the 
blow  that  had  befallen  her. 

At  luncheon  with  Hopewell  the  next  day,  Fielding  again 
heard  echoes  of  the  affair. 

"What  business  is  it  of  people's  ?"  he  burst  out  angrily. 
"Has  New  York  suddenly  become  so  damn  pious  that 
they  should  lift  their  hands  in  horror  at  anything  like 
this?  You're  not  such  a  saint  yourself.'* 

"It  isn't  that  New  York  is  pious,"  said  Hopewell 
with  a  smile.  "It  is  merely  that  New  York  is  bored  and 
nosey  and  insists  upon  being  entertained.  These  things 
never  fail  to  prove  entertaining.  Then,  too,  old  man, 
you  must  admit  that  you  have  staged  rather  a  good 
show.** 

"A  good  show!"  growled  Fielding. 

"Oh,  a  rattling  good  show!  I  like  your  nerve.  Why, 
you've  taken  her  everywhere  your  friends  go.  I  saw  you 
together  myself  one  evening." 

"You  did?" 

"Yes,  and  I  must  compliment  you  on  your  taste.  Too 
bad  your  wife  is  taking  it  so  to  heart." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Mrs.  Glinden  was  so  upset  that  she  felt  in  need  of 
the  advice  of  a  friend." 

"You  seem  to  have  placed  both  of  us  under  heavy 
obligation  to  you,'*  said  Fielding  sarcastically. 

"Oh,  I  tried  to  laugh  it  off.  I  told  her  to  forget  it. 
Assured  her  it  was  only  a  passing  fancy,  and  reminded 
her  that  she  had  been  absent  from  the  city  rather  con- 
siderably during  the  past  six  months,  and  that  men  are 
natural-born  rovers."  Hopewell  stopped  to  glance  at 
the  menu.  "Let  me  see  the  French  pastry,"  he  said 


GOLD   SHOD  217 

to  the  waiter.  Then  he  turned  to  Fielding:  "Are  you 
hit  pretty  hard,  old  man?" 

"The  girl  rests  me,"  snapped  Fielding. 

"Naturally.  She's  as  delightful  as  she  can  be.  I'd 
like  to  know  her  myself." 

Fielding  smiled  again.     "No  doubt  you  would." 


CHAPTER  IV 

DOVE-COLORED  casement  curtains  spread  their 
tinted  twilight  in  Carter's  bedroom.  The  youngster 
was  asleep,  thumb  in  mouth,  after  the  first  half-hour 
of  play  with  his  father  in  a  fortnight.  Fielding  had 
growled  like  a  wolf  for  him,  barked  like  a  dog,  grunted 
like  a  pig,  and  approached  him  on  all  fours  like  a  bear. 
Carter  had  pulled  his  father's  hair?  listened  with  delight 
to  the  ticking  of  his  watch,  shaken  his  head  in  solemn 
imitation  of  the  governess,  and  articulated  all  the  words 
and  half  words  that  had  from  day  to  day  crept  into  his 
vocabulary. 

Fielding  stood  watching  the  sleeping  child,  thinking 
of  his  own  childhood.  The  smell  of  damp  slates  and  dry 
chalk  recurred  to  him,  and  the  smell  of  medicines  that 
had  clung  to  his  grandfather's  clothes.  He  thought  of 
the  Chatterbox,  whose  pictured  pages  had  given  him  his 
first  awed  impressions  of  the  sea  and  of  ships,  of  snow- 
stormed  London  streets,  of  clowns  and  jockeys  and  giants, 
of  mysterious  woods  and  castles,  of  generals  and  of 
chimney-sweeps.  He  would  have  to  find  a  Chatterbox 
for  Carter. 

"Oh,  you're  here?"  said  Beth,  discovering  him.  "May 
I  speak  to  you?" 

They  went  down  to  the  library  in  an  atmosphere  of 
calm  formality. 

"I've  been  doing  a  great  deal  of  thinking,"  she  began, 
switching  on  more  lights. 

"What  have  you  concluded?" 

Beth  seated  herself  and  began  the  characteristic  tap- 
ping with  her  foot. 

"The  first  shock  of  knowing  about  your  infidelity  is 

218 


GOLD   SHOD  219 

over,"  she  continued.  "I  realize,  of  course,  that  that 
sort  of  thing  is  not  uncommon  among  men.  Still,  my 
knowledge  of  what  has  happened  will  naturally  make  a 
difference  between  us." 

Beth  was  talking  as  though  her  sentences  had  been 
rehearsed.  "For  Carter's  sake,  I  am  trying  to  view  it 
as  sensibly  as  I  can.  I  am  starting  for  the  mountains 
again  to-morrow  with  Carter  and  Mother.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  you  join  us  there  when  you  can  come  back 
to  me  again — as  your  old  self." 

"Very  well,  Beth,"  said  Fielding. 

Beth's  calmness  suddenly  gave  way.  A  hurt  look  leapt 
into  her  eyes.  "Talk  to  me !"  she  cried.  "Good  heavens, 
can't  you  talk  to  me?'* 

"Please!'*  begged  Fielding.  "There  isn't  anything  to 
say.  Go  on  up  to  the  lake  and  forget  your  troubles. 
I'll  be  very  glad  to  run  up  sometime  soon  for  a  week- 
end." 

"You*re  not — entirely  indifferent  to  me  any  more, 
are  you?'* 

"I'm  always  proud  of  you.  You're  a  very  remarkable 
woman." 

Beth  went  to  him  and  put  her  arms  about  him. 

"Come  to  us  soon,"  she  added  softly.  "Talk  to  me 
again  about  your  business.  Let  me  share  that  with  you 
as  I  used  to." 

The  old  appeal,  but.  it  did  not  move  him  now. 

"I'm  hungry  to  hear  what  you've  been  accomplishing," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  sick  of  talking  business." 

"Then  we'll  talk  about  something  else." 

"But  you'd  be  thinking  of  business,"  he  said  harshly. 
"It  seems  to  be  impossible  for  vou  to  think  of  anything 
else." 

Beth  drew  back.     "You  hate  me,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not.  I'm  tired  to  death 
making  money  for  you.  I'm  exhausted.  I'm  nearly  crazy. 
This  place  of  yours  makes  me  want  to  dash  out  into  the 


220  GOLD   SHOD 

dirt  of  the  street.  I  ran  away  from  here  to  a  couple  of 
bare  rooms,  and  you've  pried  into  my  privacy  even  there. 
For  God's  sake,  go  on  to  the  mountains  and  let  me 
alone!" 

Beth's  lips  were  gray. 

"Are  you  through?"  she  asked,  ominously  quiet. 

"I  was  never  so  through  in  all  my  life." 

"Go  wallow  with  your  mistress,  and  damn  you!"  she 
screamed  and  rushed  from  the  room. 

"What  is  it,  child?"  demanded  Beth's  mother  a  moment 
later,  looking  fixedly  at  her  tense  face. 

"I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this  house  to-night,"  sobbed 
Beth. 

"I  told  you  to  be  nice  to  him,"  whined  the  older  woman. 

"I  don't  ever  want  to  see  him  again.  I  can't  live  this 
way.  I'd  rather  jump  out  of  the  window.'1' 

"Be  sensible.  For  God's  sake  be  sensible!"  Mrs. 
Ellis  dabbed  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  She  was  deter- 
mined to  keep  this  household  together.  Fielding  was 
too  great  an  asset  to  relinquish.  "You  have  too  much 
at  stake  to  throw  it  all  over.  Think  of  the  future. 
Think  of  Carter.  Think  of  me." 

She  paused  to  weep. 

"You  don't  dare  do  anything  silly.  Just  let  him  alone 
for  a  while.  He'll  come  back  to  you.  They  always  do. 
I'll  stand  right  by  you,  my  darling.  Let  me  manage, 
my  precious  pet.  Don't  cry  so!  Listen  to  your 
mother !" 

"It's  cruel  that  this  had  to  happen  after  all  I've  done 
for  him,"  moaned  Beth  between  sobs. 

"He'd  have  been  nothing  without  you." 

For  a  month  now  Fielding  and  Olah  had  been  collaborat- 
ing on  their  play.  They  had  laboriously  completed  the 
first  act,  and  were  toiling  on  the  second. 

"It's  a  pity  you  have  only  your  evenings  for  writing," 
she  burst  out  once.  "What  do  you  do  all  day?" 


GOLD   SHOD  221 

"Earn  my  living." 

"Poor  man!  If  we  can  only  find  a  producer.  There's 
some  sparkling  dialogue  here." 

"The  only  decent  lines  in  the  thing  are  yours.  I 
thought  I  had  a  dramatic  sense,  but  I  haven't." 

"Hush."  Olah  silenced  him  with  a  kiss.  "There's  a 
delightfully  ironic  touch  to  this  final  scene.  Just  let 
me  read  it  to  you." 

Another  time  she  found  him  without  coat  or  waistcoat, 
laboring  in  the  sultry  heat  of  his  room. 

"Dear  boy,  you  can't  work  on  a  night  like  this,"  she 
protested. 

"I  never  felt  more  like  working  in  my  life." 

"Don't  be  unreasonable.  Come,  let's  take  a  bus  ride. 
Anything  to  get  some  air." 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  get  any  work  done?" 

"Oh,  come  on.  You'll  write  nothing  but  gibberish  to- 
night." 

"It's  always  gibberish,"  Fielding  sighed.  "As  a  play- 
wright, I'm  a  rotten  failure.  All  right,  let's  run.  But 
no  bus.  I  propose  to  drown  my  dejection  on  the  highest 
and  coolest  roof-garden  in  town." 

"Ooh,  another  one  of  the  Cinderella  nights!" 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  dancing  and  drinking 
champagne. 

"You  are  squandering  your  earnings  recklessly,"  ob- 
served Olah. 

"We  will  dine  every  day  for  a  week  at  the  Dutch  Oven 
to  make  up  for  our  spree,"  said  Fielding,  extending  his 
arms  for  another  dance. 

"Who's  the  distinguished-looking  man  who  spoke  to 
you?" 

"An  automobile  manufacturer." 

"What  is  that  job  of  yours,  anyway?  You  seem  to 
know  all  sorts  of  people." 

"It's  a  humdrum  job  of  no  importance.  Talk  to  me 
about  something  interesting." 

Several  nights  later,  Fielding  threw  his  pencil  on  the 


222  GOLD    SHOD 

table  and  exclaimed:  "It's  no  use.  Every  line  I  write 
is  wooden." 

"Pick  up  that  pencil  and  go  back  to  work,"  ordered 
Olah.  "If  authors  wrote  only  when  they  felt  like  it, 
I'd  get  no  parts.  It's  like  rehearsing,  or  any  other  job. 
It  has  to  go  on,  rain  or  shine." 

Fielding  gave  her  a  weary  look,  sagged  lower  in  his 
chair  and  listened  to  the  bedlam  that  rose  from  the  play- 
ground across  the  street. 

"This  room  is  like  an  oven  to-night,"  he  said.  "My 
brain  feels  as  thick  as  a  mattress." 

"Then  write  a  bedroom  play,"  she  laughed. 

"I'm  worthless  to  you  as  a  collaborator,"  said  Fielding 
miserably.  "When  I  feel  like  working,  you  won't  let 
me.  And  when  you  want  me  to,  I  can't." 

"Cross-patch !" 

Fielding  caught  himself  looking  at  her  with  indiffer- 
ence. His  sluggish  mind  recalled,  almost  wistfully,  the 
sumptuous  rows  of  books  in  his  cool  and  quiet  library. 
Suddenly  he  was  wondering  whether  the  rule  of  this 
temperamental  creature  was  so  very  different  from  Beth's. 

He  saw  Olah  but  once  during  the  following  week.  Late 
one  night  she  burst  in  upon  him  with  an  unaccustomed 
flush  on  her  animated  face. 

"I  must  tell  you  the  news,"  she  began  breathlessly. 

"What  news?" 

"What  do  you  think?  I  open  in  September  on  Broad- 
way! I  have  found  a  backer.  He  has  put  up  the 
money.  The  contracts  are  signed.  The  play  is  being 
written.  I  shall  be  starred." 

A  look  of  unnatural  gayety  flamed  in  her  eyes. 

"You  did  not  know'  I  could  be  so  practical,  did  you? 
But  you  know  it's  the  only  door  to  stardom." 

There  was  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"For  a  time,  you  drove  all  that  out  of  my  mind,"  she 
resumed  soberly.  "You  made  me  think  of  art  as  some- 
thing finer.  I  seemed  to  have  got  cleansed."  She  looked 
into  space.  "But  Broadway  is  Broadway.  Everything 


GOLD    SHOD  223 

has  been  arranged.  My  motor  cars  are  ordered.  Just 
imagine !  My  apartment  reeks  with  luxury.  He  is  very 
rich — made  millions  during  the  war — a  genuine  profiteer. 
He's  the  sort  to  exact  every  privilege.  I'm  to  be  his 
property  exclusively.  But  I  shall  be  famous." 

"Why  in  heaven's  name  didn't  you  tell  me  what  you 
wanted?"  asked  Fielding.  "I  could  have  done  all  this  for 
you." 

Olah  looked  at  him  incredulously,  unable  to  associate 
the  master  of  this  meager  room  with  any  thought  of 
wealth. 

"You  could?"  she  said. 

"Certainly.  I've  done  my  share  of  profiteering,  too. 
Do  you  like  this  fellow?" 

"Oh,  he's  all  right.  When  one  needs  a  backer,  one 
can't  always  pick  and  choose." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  eager  for  luxury  and  for 
fame,"  he  said,  studying  her  curiously. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  playing  in  that  barn  of  a  place 
from  choice?  Naturally  I  wanted  to  be  on  Broadway. 
But  listen,  if  you  can  really  finance  me,  it  isn't  too  late." 

"But  you  say  you've  reached  an  agreement  with  this 
man,'*  said  Fielding  with  barely  concealed  relief. 

"I  don't  have  to  carry  it  out.  Good  God,  if  I  had 
only  known!  I  can't  imagine  what  made  me  so  stupid  as 
never  to  have  suspected — and  after  our  Cinderella  parties, 
too !  I'll  tell  him  it's  all  off.  I  insist." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  better  interfere — much  as  I  should 
like  to." 

"Don't  you  want  me  any  more?"  asked  Olah  in  a  sud- 
den depression. 

"We've  had  a  corking  time  together.  YouVe  been 
very  charming.  I  shall  hate  mightily  to  lose  you." 

"Then  let  me  call  off  this  agreement.  I  have  only  to 
say  that  I've  reconsidered.  He  doesn't  expect  me  until 
Saturday." 

"No,  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  man,"  said  Fielding 
firmly. 


224  GOLD    SHOD 

During  the  remainder  of  the  week,  Olah  waited  anxiously 
for  him  to  re-appear  at  his  rooms  in  St.  Luke's  Place. 
She  discovered  the  location  of  his  office,  and  began  to 
besiege  it  frantically  for  an  interview  with  him,  but  he 
had  gone  to  Washington,  and  at  length  her  hopes 
dwindled  into  despair.  On  Saturday  she  surrendered  her- 
self unhappily. 

On  Fielding's  return,  he  found  a  distressful  letter 
from  her,  begging  him  to  communicate  with  her.  He  read 
it  moodily,  wondering  if  he  should  have  abandoned  her 
in  this  manner.  He  liked  her  immensely,  but  could  not 
write  when  she  was  about,  and  already  the  determination 
to  forget  the  play,  and  to  begin  on  a  novel  instead,  had 
taken  masterful  hold  of  him. 

That  night  he  wrapped  up  the  unfinished  manuscript 
of  their  play,  addressed  it  to  her,  and  posted  it.  Then 
he  re-sharpened  his  pile  of  pencils  of  soft  Siberian 
graphite,  and  went  vigorously  to  work. 


CHAPTER  V 

SO  here  you  are?"  said  Wayland  Emmett,  staring  at 
the  room  and  its  occupant. 

"Hello,"  replied  Fielding.  He  put  aside  some  pages 
of  manuscript. 

"The  simple  life,  eh?"  said  Emmett. 

"Yes,  I  manage  to  get  in  a  few  hours  of  it  now  and 
then.  Sit  down." 

"This  is  a  funny  sort  of  a  fad  for  you  to  be  in- 
dulging in.  How  did  you  ever  find  your  way  down 
here?  What  the  devil  are  you  trying  to  do  with  your- 
self?" 

"Write  something." 

"Damn  few  writers  making  any  money  at  it." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  make  any  money  at  it." 

"What  then — reform  the  world?" 

"No,  enjoy  the  world." 

"What,  in  a  barren  dump  like  this?  I'll  swear  I  can't 
understand  you." 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  can." 

"What  are  you  driving  at  anyway?" 

"Terms  of  expression,  things  I've  hardly  even  taken 
time  to  think  about — but  why  talk  about  it?" 

"You  always  manage  to  express  yourself  pretty  satis- 
factorily down  at  the  office,  old  man." 

"Not  myself,"  said  Fielding,  shaking  his  head. 

"Mrs.  Glinden  wanted  me  to  run  in.  She's  worried. 
Wants  to  know  if  you're  comfortable." 

"Can  she  think  of  nothing  but  comfort !" 

"Any  message  you  want  to  send  her?" 

"Tell  her  I  hope  she's  comfortable." 

Fielding's  labors  on  his  novel  were  accompanied  by  ex- 

225 


226  GOLD    SHOD 

tensive  reading.  The  trapeze-work  of  the  clever  story 
writers,  and  the  output  of  the  sentimental  confectioners 
of  fiction  wearied  him.  He  looked  almost  in  vain  for 
simple  verities  and  the  true  salt  of  romance  among  the 
periodicals.  He  saw  sugary,  insipid  sweets  being  shoved 
by  smirking  merchandisers  into  the  show-windows  of  the 
magazines.  He  beheld  floods  of  "realism"  by  morbid 
poseurs,  cut  to  the  shallow  measurements  of  female  idlers 
and  of  lustful,  timorous  males.  Only  here  and  there 
among  all  these  distorters  and  defamers  of  life  did  he 
discern  the  shadowy  outlines  of  greater  figures  with  some- 
thing real  to  say,  figures  with  the  stature  to  behold  and 
the  power  to  speak. 

He  found  himself  drifting  into  prolonged  periods  of 
introspection,  scrutinizing  his  past,  endeavoring  to  ac- 
count for  its  conflicting  impulses,  and  searching  for  his 
impressions  as  a  child.  Often  his  mind  swung  back  to 
Carter.  Looking  within  himself,  he  beheld  half-cut 
jungles  of  weakness,  pools  of  passion,  hothouses  of  trag- 
edy— what  a  mistake  to  have  imposed  these  on  Carter. 

As  he  thought  of  his  feeble  scraping  at  the  riddle  of 
existence,  a  consuming  melancholy  pervaded  him.  He 
appraised  the  meager  fractions  of  their  longed-for  lives 
that  those  nearest  him  had  been  able  to  live — the 
broken  hopes  of  his  father  and  his  grandfather  and  the 
Blasphemer,  the  embers  he  had  gathered  from  the  ashes 
of  those  lives  and  had  added  to  the  fires  of  his  own 
being.  He  thought  of  the  sparks  he  had  struck  from 
contact  with  his  mother  and  Beth  and  Carter  and  Brenda 
and  Olah,  with  actors  on  vanished  stages,  with  leaves  of 
forgotten  books,  with  glistening  mornings  and  starry 
nights.  He  caught  fugitive  glimpses  of  the  different 
lives  and  mysterious  impulses  that  had  been  patched  to- 
gether into  his  own,  to  make  up  the  messages  that  he 
fondly  believed  had  become  his  to  express. 

He  was  increasingly  aware  of  a  clamor  of  voices  that 
cried  to  him,  unfinished  lives  calling  to  him  for  completion, 
fragments  of  lives  laying  hold  of  him  with  pale  fingers, 


GOLD    SHOD  227 

demanding  to  live  themselves  on  in  his  written  pages.  It 
came  to  him  all  of  a  sudden  why  he  was  trying  to  write 
— it  was  to  prolong  and  enlarge  the  lives  of  people,  living 
and  dead,  whose  vital  impulses  had  been  suppressed  or 
mown  down.  He  felt  like  the  living  street  of  multitudes, 
like  a  pavement  tramped  by  thousands  of  hungry  feet. 
Was  this  why  he  had  always  been  moved  by  lamplit  win- 
dows glowing  in  silent  walls,  by  ripples  of  music,  by  rusty 
gates  and  sagging  fences,  by  pinched  faces  in  anonymous 
crowds?  He  felt  the  pressure  of  a  stream  of  boundless 
pity  for  men  and  women  and  their  tragedies. 

Now  it  was  the  vehement  spirit  of  the  Blasphemer  that 
brooded  over  Fielding's  workroom.  Frequent  letters  ar- 
rived from  the  sanatorium;  the  sick  man  rejoiced  at 
Fielding's  new  efforts.  Once  he  wrote:  "Now  I  envy 
you,  you  disreputable  pup.  I  can  hear  the  rumble  of 
your  pen.  Write,  damn  you!"  Again:  "God,  what  a 
kick  you  injected  into  your  last  letter!  Hurry  down 
here  with  your  bundle  of  manuscript.  I  am  panting  to  see 
your  handiwork.  What  feed  it  will  be  for  the  bastard 
swine  of  a  reading  public."  Another  time:  "My  un- 
Christly  cough  is  worse.  Who  the  hell  invented  t.b.  ? 
Hurry  here  with  your  epic,  for  believe  me,  the  greatest 
bore  in  the  world  is  to  die." 

Fielding  kept  promising  himself  a  visit  to  the 
Blasphemer  directly  his  book  should  be  completed.  He 
was  impatient  to  place  the  manuscript  before  the  judging 
eyes  of  his  friend. 

A  voice  almost  from  the  dead,  these  biting  passages 
in  the  Blasphemer's  angular  scrawl  invariably  spurred 
Fielding  into  accelerated  effort.  Then  came  this  astound- 
ing news: 

"Bacilli  in  retreat.  Temperature  normal.  Pneumo- 
thorax  and  tuberculin  treatment  doing  great  job." 

Fielding  was  jubilant,  and  three  weeks  later  was  in 
receipt  of  a  letter  from  the  physician-in-chief,  confirming 
the  flash  from  the  Blasphemer.  And  a  little  later  the 
patient  wired: 


228  GOLD    SHOD 

"Medic  says  week  in  New  York  will  do  me  good." 
One  sparkling  October  day  brought  a  gust  of  blows 
on  the  door  in  St.  Luke's  Place,  and  the  Blasphemer  strode 
in,  his  thin  face  russet  from  curing  in  the  sun. 

"I  feel  like  a  jail-bird  on  a  glorious  tear!'*  he  cried. 
"This  burg  of  yours  looks  like  heaven  to  me.  Am  I 
alive  or  did  I  croak  ?  So  this  is  your  monk's  cell !  How 
did  you  ever  get  your  feet  off  the  Kermanshahs?  By 
the  hallowed  Zeus,  no  silk  even  at  your  windows!  Give 
me  a  drink!" 

Till  late  at  night  Fielding  had  been  reading  aloud 
to  the  Blasphemer  from  the  manuscript  of  his  novel.  The 
listener  sat  drinking  and  smoking  steadily,  a  sympathetic 
expression  on  his  bony  countenance.  Thus  far  he  had 
offered  no  comments. 

"That's  as  far  as  I've  got,"  said  Fielding  at  length. 

"How  does  it  strike  you?" 

The  Blasphemer  gazed  at  him  sadly. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  all  that?"  faltered  Fielding. 

"You've  got  some  nice  flashes  of  color  and  one  or 
two  wallops  of  reality.  But,  you  know,  it  takes  years  to 
learn  how  to  write.  Your  characters  sit  ground  and 
spout  advertising  copy  at  each  other.  Your  women  are 
mail-order-house  catalogue  descriptions.  I  know  how  you 
feel;  but  you've  been  chained  for  so  long  to  your  rock 
that  you've  grown  stiff  and  rusty.  By  God,  you've  had 
vultures  feeding  on  you !  They've  had  their  beaks  in  the 
artist  in  you  for  so  long  that  there's  damn  little  of  it 
left.  You've  machined  a  few  puppets  into  existence, 
and  they  creak  and  scrape.  No,  no,  no,  this  fellow 
wouldn't  make  love  that  way.  If  he  loved  the  girl  as 
you  say  he  does,  wouldn't  he  try  to  get  his  hands  on  her? 
He  talks,  but  he  doesn't  do  anything.  Did  you  ever 
jabber  to  any  one  about  adamant?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"Ever  see  any  adamant?" 

"Probably  not." 


GOLD    SHOD  229 

"Then  don't  have  him  harangue  her  about  the  stuff.*' 

"Well,  what  else?"  asked  Fielding. 

"This  woman,  now.  If  she  blabbed  to  the  neighbors, 
she'd  go  next  door  on  some  plausible  pretext  and  be  a 
damn  sight  more  casual." 

Fielding  went  to  the  window  in  silence,  and  dully 
watched  a  Hudson  Street  trolley  car  as  it  clanged  into 
sight  and  disappeared. 

"You're  competing  with  people  who  have  sweat  blood 
through  their  pens  for  years,"  the  Blasphemer  continued. 
"You  can't  pick  up  a  brush  and  paint  portraits  right 
off.  And  you  can't  grab  a  pen  and  dash  off  a  novel. 
You've  put  it  off  a  long  time,  you  know." 

"But  when  I  begin  a  thing,  I  don't  quit  and  I  don't 
fail.  I'm  not  built  that  way,"  flared  Fielding. 

"You  serve  another  god  all  day,  and  you're  tuckered 
out  when  you  get  here.  You've  got  to  choose  which  god 
you  will  serve.  You  can't  eat  your  pie  and  have  it,  too. 
Oh,  Christ,  what  a  country  this  is !  Why,  there  isn't 
another  country  in  the  world  where  men  think  because 
they  can  do  a  good  job  at  one  thing,  they  can  pitch 
in  and  do  the  opposite  thing  just  as  well.  Man,  man, 
you  can't  do  a  cosmic  split — keep  one  foot  in  the  trough 
and  the  other  on  Parnassus!" 

Fielding  smiled  wistfully.  "You  think  I'm  wasting 
my  time?" 

"You've  waited  too  God  damn  long.  You've  kept  your 
soul  in  a  forgotten  bin  in  the  stockroom.  You've  let  it 
get  covered  with  cob-webs.  You've  let  it  rot." 

A  defiant  glitter  came  into  Fielding's  eye.  His  face 
flamed.  "What  the  hell  do  you  know  about  my  soul?" 
he  cried.  "Maybe  I've  written  a  lot  of  rot.  I  don't 
know.  But  I'll  tell  you  this.  I'm  not  done.  You  watch 
my  smoke!" 

The  Blasphemer  took  a  long  drink  and  wiped  his 
lips  with  the  back  of  his  gaunt,  knuckly  hand  before 
he  replied.  Then: 

"You  poor  hybrid.    You're  the  product  of  two  separate 


230  GOLD   SHOD 

and  distinct  species.  So  you're  sterile.  You  were  raised 
on  a  soil  that  nourishes  factories  and  starves  artists. 
In  Europe  you'd  have  been  a  genius.  In  America  you 
had  to  sell  goods,  manufacture  goods,  export  goods.  And 
you've  been  ruled  by  women  in  whose  eyes  you  could 
shine  only  by  making  money  for  them.  You're  not  to 
blame,  you're  just  the  victim.  Why,  if  I  had  had  even  a 
spark  of  your  gift  for  business,  the  women  in  my  life 
would  have  done  the  same  with  me.  And  because  they 
didn't  have  the  material  to  work  on,  I'm  nothing.  No, 
I'm  not  being  sorry  for  myself;  I've  at  least  made  my 
try.  But  you — they  didn't  even  let  you  open  your  mouth. 
And  now  it's  too  late," 


CHAPTER  VI 

'•.YIELDING  called  me  up,"  said  Beth  victoriously. 
A  "Thank  goodness  he  has  come  to  his  senses,"  re- 

plied Mrs.  Ellis,  rising  from  the  day-bed  to  embrace  her 
daughter. 

"He  will  be  here  for  dinner." 

"I  told  you  it  wouldn't  last  long.    It  never  does." 

"How  would  you  act?" 

"Just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  A  man  and  his 
flings  are  about  as  inseparable  as  a  woman  and  her 
headaches.  Take  the  advice  of  an  older  woman  and 
forget  it,  my  dear.  Whatever  you  do,  don't  rake  over 
what  is  past.  Don't  embarrass  him  with  questions." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Beth  thoughtfully,  "I  imagine 
that  woman  angle  wasn't  all  of  it." 

"What  on  earth  else  could  there  have  been?" 

"I  hardly  know.  There  are  things  in  Fielding  that 
puzzle  me.  I've  never  quite  understood  him.  There's 
another  side  to  him.  It  frightens  me." 

"Oh,  pshaw,  don't  imagine  things!" 

When  Fielding  arrived,  his  appearance  gave  Beth  a 
shock.  His  face  was  pale;  the  skin  looked  drawn;  there 
were  shadows  under  his  eyes.  Wisely  she  showed  no 
concern,  but  received  him  with  gracious  cordiality. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  dinner  she  remarked: 

"I'm  giving  a  little  musical  to-morrow  night.  Won't 
you  plan  to  be  at  home?" 

"I've  got  to  see  a  friend  of  mine  off  to  a  sanatorium, 
but  I'll  try  to  run  in  late,"  said  Fielding. 

"A  young  pianist  is  to  play.  She's  been  giving  bene- 
fits for  the  Belgian  children.  Really  a  very  fine  musician, 
and  deserves  to  be  encouraged.  She's  a  former  Detroiter, 
too." 

231 


232  GOLD    SHOD 

"Is  she?     I'll  be  happy  to  meet  her." 
«A  Miss  Olgarth— Brenda  Olgarth,  isn't  it,  Mother?'* 
"Some  funny-sounding  foreign  name  like  that,"  replied 
Mrs.  Ellis. 

Against  the  silk,  primrose  walls  of  the  music-room, 
radiant  with  lamp-light,  blossomed  Brenda's  figure  at  the 
piano.  Fielding^s  eyes  did  not  leave  her,  but  roved 
continuously  between  the  mesmerizing  boundaries  of  her 
dark  folds  of  hair,  her  snowy  shoulders,  the  polished  nails 
of  her  hands,  the  sharply-indented  arches  of  her  silver 
pumps.  It  was  an  amazing  irony  to  him  that  Beth  should 
have  brought  Brenda  to  their  house,  for  this  was  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  Brenda  since  they  had  skated  to- 
gether. A  thousand  times  he  had  wondered  whether  she 
remembered  him.  To-night,  when  they  had  been  intro- 
duced, her  temperamental  eyes  had  betrayed  no  signs  of 
recognition  or  remembrance. 

"Bravo,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands 
after  the  final  encore.  "Come,  I  want  you  to  sit  down 
beside  me  and  tell  me  about  yourself." 

"Thank  you.  It  was  very  charming  of  Mrs.  Glinden 
to  extend  the  invitation,"  replied  Brenda,  taking  his 
arm. 

"And  more  charming  of  you  to  come."  They  were 
still  within  hearing  of  the  guests.  "You  have  been 
abroad.  How  long?" 

"Two  years." 

"Then  I  couldn't  have  found  you  in  Boston,"  he  said, 
now  that  they  had  reached  a  secluded  place. 

"But  you  didn't  try." 

"You  didn't  want  me  to,  did  you?" 

"I  was  afraid  you  might,  and  very  glad  you  didn't." 

"Delightful  lady,  I'm  glad  that  you  did  me  the  honor 
not  to  forget  me,"  said  Fielding. 

"Do  you  still  skate?" 

"To  have  gone  on  the  ice  without  you  would  have 
been  a  grievous  anti-climax." 


GOLD    SHOD  233 

Brenda  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  played  marvelously  to-night,"  he  added. 

"I  played  very  badly.     I  was  frightfully  nervous." 

"Your  fingers  were  bells  and  velvet!" 

She  regarded  him  quizzically.  "You  say  such  charm- 
ing things — even  when  they're  brazen  falsehoods." 

"When  do  you  play  again?" 

"A  week  from  next  Wednesday.** 

"Where?" 

"Carnegie  Hall." 

"That's  a  long  time  to  make  me  wait.  But,"  he  added, 
brightening,  "you  will  be  practicing  in  the  meantime?" 

"Every  day.** 

"May  I  come  sometime?" 

"Perhaps." 

Brenda  stood  at  the  window  of  her  studio,  from  which 
she  could  see  the  sherry-brown  turf  and  the  patches  of 
deadened  foliage  that  still  clung  to  the  trees  of  Cen- 
tral Park.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  about  the  hour 
when  Fielding  usually  ran  up  if  he  was  in  town.  She 
was  studying  the  pedestrians,  distorted  in  perspective 
from  the  height  of  eight  stories,  watching  for  Fielding's 
rugged  figure.  The  sky  grew  grayer,  and  twilight  thick- 
ened. A  section  of  windowpanes  in  the  apartment  house 
across  the  street  blossomed  into  lemon-colored  light 
streaming  through  buff  curtains. 

Brenda  switched  on  the  light  and  resumed  her  place 
before  the  piano. 

In  retrospection  it  seemed  strangely  unreal  to  her — 
Fielding  Glinden's  abrupt  and  brief  appearance  in  her 
life,  her  persistent  wonder  during  these  years  whether 
she  would  ever  see  him  again,  at  length  their  meeting 
in  his  own  home,  now  this !  She  knew  she  had  never  been 
so  happy  before — and  yet  all  day  an  inexplicable  mel- 
ancholy had  pervaded  her,  a  feeling  of  unreasoning  com- 
passion for  her  companion  of  these  twilight  hours,  a  con- 
suming sense  of  almost  mothering  care. 


234  GOLD    SHOD 

"Unhappy  about  anything?"  asked  Fielding. 

"I  was  afraid  you  weren't  coming,  dear." 

"Sorry  to  be  late.  A  telephone  call  from  Washington 
detained  me  for  nearly  half  an  hour." 

"You  still  come  because  you  want  to?" 

"There's  nothing  I've  ever  wanted  to  do  more."  He 
drew  her  close  to  him. 

"What  is  there  about  me  that  makes  you  care  for 
me  so?" 

"A  magic." 

"Before  that  vanishes,  we  must  say  good-by.  I'm 
not  going  to  let  you  acquire  me  as  a  habit." 

"No  danger.  Every  time  I  see  you,  you  dawn  upon 
me  like  a  glistening,  unexpected  adventure.  It's  that 
quality  of  dawn  about  you.  I  never  saw  it  in  any  one 
else.  What  were  you  about  to  play  when  I  came  in?" 

Brenda  played  one  of  the  fragments  he  had  listened 
to  on  the  night  of  their  first  meeting.  ''You  remember 
that?"  she  asked. 

"It's  unforgettable." 

"Do  I  play  it  any  better  now  than  I  did  then?" 

"You  played  it  perfectly  then;  you  play  it  perfectly 
now." 

"Dear  sentimentalist!"  In  her  tone  was  an  effort  to 
laugh  commingled  with  an  effort  to  subdue  a  sob. 

"Brenda,  what  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  unevenly.  "I  love  you.  And 
I'm  afraid " 

"Of  what  are  you  afraid?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

"Dawns  are  so  fragile  and  so  brief." 

"I'm  awkward  with  my  figures  of  speech.  The  kind 
of  life  I  have  lived  has  made  me  inarticulate.  Nothing 
on  earth  can  come  between  us.  Do  you  think  for  a 
minute  that  Mrs.  Glinden  means  anything  to  me?  We 
should  have  been  divorced  long  ago.  Why,  I've  been 
nothing  but  a  cat's-paw  in  her  hands." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  We're  as  married  now 
as  we  ever  can  be.  I  love  you  too  much  to  risk  it." 


GOLD   SHOD  235 

"But  you  won't  let  me  do  anything  for  you !" 

"You  love  me.    You  come  to  me." 

"It's  charming  of  you  to  feel  that  way  about  it.  But 
when  you  get  started  on  this  South  American  tour,  you'll 
forget  all  about  me,"  said  Fielding,  depressed  with  fore- 
bodings. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!" 

"Are  you  determined  on  South  America?" 

"Yes,  it's  aU  settled." 

"Your  career  means  a  great  deal  to  you,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  means  everything." 

"I  can't  even  comfort  myself  with  the  knowledge  of 
having  contributed  to  your  musical  education  or  placing 
you  on  the  concert  stage.  If  I  had  only  found  you  again 
in  time  to  engage  some  'swine'  of  a  manager  to  boom 
you!" 

"How  is  your  Blasphemer,  and  when  am  I  to  meet 
him?"  asked  Brenda.  "But,  really,  there  is  no  end  to 
artists  who  would  give  body  and  soul  for  even  a  very 
little  boom.  Help  some  of  them." 

"Yes,  I  have  at  least  that  comfort  to  look  forward 
to."  Fielding's  tone  was  bitter.  "A  patron  of  art,  a 
collector  of  books  and  pictures,  a  backer  of  musicians  and 
plays  and  publishers — yes,  I  can  still  do  that.  I  can 
endow  a  few  libraries  and  present  a  few  statues  to  needy 
parks.  I  can  sign  my  name  to  checks  if  not  to  poems. 
All  I  can  do  is  line  up  with  the  other  philanthropic  fat- 
heads who  have  served  Mammon  and  served  him  well!" 

Brenda  was  looking  at  Fielding  with  boundless  pity; 
now  she  understood  the  unreasoning  intuitive  compassion 
she  had  felt  for  him. 

"Sometimes  you  seem  to  be  an  artist  to  your  finger- 
tips," she  said  thoughtfully. 

Fielding  replied  only  with  a  sardonic  smile. 

"Why  don't  you  try  your  hand  at  something,  Field- 
ing? Why  don't  you  write?" 

"Write !"  he  exclaimed,  then  mastered  his  mood.  "My 
dear,  it's  too  late.  Wanting  to  is  one  thing.  Doing  is 


236  GOLD    SHOD 

another.    You've  had  to  work  for  years  at  your  piano." 

"That's  different — it's  largely  muscles  and  nerves. 
The  writing  technique  is  less  taxing.  It  has  a  line  of  much 
less  resistance  between  the  idea  and  its  expression.  Why 
don't  you  do  a  novel?" 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Brenda.     I've  tried." 

"I  wondered  if  you  hadn't  been  up  to  something!  Let 
me  see  it!" 

"It's  no  good." 

"Who  says  it  isn't?" 

"The  Blasphemer." 

"One  man's  opinion  only.  He's  not  infallible.  Please 
let  me  see  it." 

"I  don't  even  know  where  it  is." 

"You  haven't   destroyed  it!" 

"Oh,  I  guess  it's  somewhere  about." 

"Then  bring  it  to  me.    Please !" 

A  few  days  later,  Fielding  asked  Brenda  hesitantly, 
"Have  you  had  a  chan,ce  to  look  at  any  of  that  stuff 
of  mine?" 

"I've  read  it  all  with  great  care.  How  you  must  have 
worked !" 

"Like  a  hod-carrier,"  said  Fielding,  "and  I  managed 
to  record  only  a  lot  of  drivel,"  he  said  grimly. 

"I  wouldn't  say  that.  Your  writing  is  a  little  stilted, 
perhaps.  The  main  difficulty  is  that  it  isn't  you.  You 
didn't  get  your  force,  your  charm,  your  personality 
into  it.  Something  is  missing — I'm  not  critic  enough 
to  know  what.  I  should  be  curious  to  hear  what  your 
Blasphemer  said." 

"My  Blasphemer!"  Fielding  looked  at  Brenda  for  a 
moment  with  startled  eyes.  "You've  hit  it  exactly.  The 
only  thing  I  have  succeeded  in  doing  has  been  to  surround 
myself  with  those  who  can  do  the  things  for  me  that 
with  all  my  yearning  I  can  never  hope  to  do  for  myself. 
My  Blasphemer  blasphemes  for  me.  My  Brenda  plays 
for  me,  nourishing  me  with  the  things  my  grandfather 


GOLD    SHOD  237 

played  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  I  pay  golden  throats 
to  sing  for  me  while  I  sit  like  a  knot  on  a  log  with  a 
lot  of  other  corn-fed  box-holders.  I  myself  am  a  non- 
descript. I'm  not  even  a  thoroughbred  business  man, 
or  I  should  never  have  let  this  terrible  distraction  get 
into  my  blood.  I'm  neither  business  nor  artist.  The 
Blasphemer  calls  me  a  hybrid." 

"Hush!  What  was  the  Blasphemer's  opinion  of  the 
book?" 

"That  I  had  only  machined  a  few  dreary  puppets  into 
existence.  That  I  can't  'keep  one  foot  in  the  trough  and 
the  other  on  Parnassus.'  That  I've  hid  tny  soul  in  a 
forgotten  bin  in  the  stockroom  and  let  it  decay." 

"I  don't  like  his  vigor,"  protested  Brenda.  But  she 
recognized  a  secret  feeling  of  disillusion. 

"But  you're  too  much  of  an  artist  not  to  agree  with 
the  truth  of  what  he  says.  I  wanted  you  to  see  my  stuff, 
for  I  knew  that  if  there  was  anything  in  it,  you  could 
find  it." 

Brenda  reached  sympathetically  for  his  hand.  "Poor 
boy,"  she  said,  "it's  a  crime  that  your  temperament  got 
so  misdirected.  You're  so  full  of  it.  I  saw  it  the  first 
time  we  met.  I  never  could  think  of  you  but  as  a  poet 
or  composer.  Every  time  I  improvise,  I  find  myself 
playing  things  that  I  imagine  you  might  have  com- 
posed  " 

"Don't.     I  can't  stand  it!" 

"And  if  it  makes  you  suffer,  be  thankful  that  you 
can  suffer.  It  takes  a  kind  of  greatness  to  have  the  ca- 
pacity really  to  suffer.  Listen."  She  began  to  play.  "I 
know  you  so  well  that  I  can  express  what  you  feel,  even 
if  you  can't  write  it  or  say  it." 

In  the  sincerity  of  her  playing,  Brenda  did  not  foresee 
just  yet  that  her  affection  for  Fielding  could  scarcely 
survive  to-day's  disillusioning. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  President  of  the  United  States  summoned  Field- 
ing to  confer  with  him  at  the  White  House. 

Emerging  with  a  roar  from  the  tunnels,  the  'Con- 
gressional Limited  took  up  its  flight  across  the  waving 
marsh-grass  of  the  New  Jersey  flats,  while  Fielding  sat 
staring  at  the  sullen  pointed  blades,  and  thought  of  the 
multitude  of  new  swords  which  had  been  drawn,  now  that 
America  had  at  last  entered  the  World  War. 

For  a  moment,  Fielding  wondered  vaguely  just  what 
the  President  wanted  with  him,  then  he  lapsed  once  more 
into  his  reveries.  Brenda's  departure  for  Buenos  Aires 
had  been  a  torturing  wrench  to  him.  If  only  he  could 
have  had  her  love  to  shield  him  during  his  groping, 
youthful  days,  his  life  might  have  been  vastly  different; 
factories  would  never  have  taken  possession  of  him, 
balance-sheets  and  exports  would  not  have  obsessed  him, 
the  President  would  scarcely  be  sending  for  him  now 
because  he  was  known  as  a  driver  of  men.  Had  he  found 
Brenda  earlier,  the  glamor  of  his  early  dreams  would  not 
have  escaped  him,  he  would  not  have  ridden  down  the  artist 
in  him,  gold  shod. 

Suddenly  his  thoughts  returned  to  the  Blasphemer. 
He  had  not  seen  his  friend  again  after  the  sick  man's  brief 
visit  to  New  York;  the  blaspheming  was  over;  the  final 
thunderbolt  was  flung.  "Light  your  lantern ;  mine  is 
going  out,"  had  been  the  last  bracing  but  ironic  mes- 
sage from  the  sanatorium. 

To-night  the  lower  end  of  Pennsylvania  Avenue  was 
even  more  disappointing  to  Fielding  than  usual,  crowded 
with  its  cheap  lunch  rooms  and  saloons,  photograph  gal- 
leries, peanut  stands,  and  tawdry  souvenir  shops.  The 

238 


GOLD   SHOD  239 

sidewalks  were  alive  with  soldiers,  and  flags  flapped  from 
nearly  every  building.  A  column  in  khaki  swung  past, 
heavy  foot-gear  beating  time  to  the  tense  measures  of 
the  drums  and  fifes.  From  his  cab,  Fielding  watched 
all  this  with  a  sense  of  unreality.  He  cast  a  quick  look 
backward  at  the  Capitol,  gray  and  luminous  in  its  flood- 
lights, and  strove  to  adjust  himself  to  an  appropriate 
emotional  attitude  toward  his  country  at  war,  but  could 
think  only  of  Brenda's  departure,  of  his  own  wasted 
years. 

At  ten  the  next  morning,  Fielding  was  passed  into 
the  President's  inner  anteroom.  Here  there  were  thirty 
or  more  men,  most  of  them  standing  about, — Senators, 
Representatives,  diplomats.  Some  stood  with  arms  tightly 
folded;  one  was  tapping  his  teeth  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers;  Fielding  regarded  their  active  eyes  and  ready 
smiles,  the  comfortable  square-toed  shoes,  the  posing 
strut  and  demeanor  of  politicians.  These  were  the  men, 
he  reflected,  who  ran  the  government;  he  imagined  there 
were  few  among  them  he  would  even  consider  having  in 
his  own  organizations. 

Fielding's  entrance  was  not  unobserved.  A  Senator 
nodded  to  him  pompously.  An  Interstate  Commerce  Com- 
missioner paused  on  his  way  out  to  shake  hands.  An 
Assistant  Attorney-General  spoke  to  him. 

Fielding  found  the  scene  less  impressive  than -he  had  ex- 
pected: his  own  anterooms  were  conspicuously  superior. 
Against  the  white  woodwork  and  green  walls  rose  a 
homely  mahogany  clothes-press.  The  large  flat-top  desk 
of  the  Secretary  to  the  President  was  loaded  with  papers ; 
the  pile  of  twenty  or  more  newly  sharpened  pencils  re- 
minded Fielding  of  the  row  of  Siberian  graphite  pencils 
that  once  had  lain  on  his  now-abandoned  table  in  St. 
Luke's  Place.  On  a  small  table  in  a  corner  was  a  silver 
water-pitcher,  and  near  it,  in  an  ordinary  glass  con- 
tainer, were  sanitary  drinking  cups,  and  on  the  floor  a 
cheap  waste-basket  and  a  white  porcelain  cuspidor.  The 


240  GOLD   SHOD 

broad  windows  were  open;  from  the  sunny  lawns,  past 
blossoming  trees  and  clumps  of  shrubs,  blew  a  mild  breeze, 
bringing  faint  echoes  of  distant  drums. 

"Mr.  Glinden,"  said  the  Secretary  briskly. 

Fielding  rose  and  was  conducted  through  the  long 
narrow  corridor  that  ran  to  the  Executive  Office. 

The  President  came  graciously  toward  him,  his  hand 
extended.  "I  am  very  happy  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Glinden," 
he  said. 

"It  is  a  distinguished  honor  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent." 

"Please  sit  down." 

Fielding  was  aware  of  an  amiable  warmth,  of  an  in- 
gratiating and  magnetic  personality  he  had  not  expected 
to  find,  for  he  had  formed  hostile  notions  of  the  Presi- 
dent, and  had  expected  to  behold  a  chilly,  autocratic  per- 
sonality, rather  than  this  unmistakable  charm,  this  pleas- 
ing questioning,  and  grave  asking  for  advice.  Fielding 
was  only  vaguely  aware  of  the  curving  bookcases  and 
open  windows.  The  critical  mood  in  which  he  had  been 
scanning  the  details  of  the  outer  office  vanished.  He  was 
talking  mass-production  with  an  authority,  unfolding 
darkness-cleaving  answers  to  worried  inquiries. 

At  length  the  care-worn  Executive  said:  "I  am  very 
grateful  to  you  for  these  facts.  I  had  been  advised  that 
you  were  the  man  to  look  to,  and  now  I  am  quite  con- 
vinced of  it.  If  I  may  make  the  proposal,  and  if  it  is 
agreeable  to  you,  I  should  like  to  appoint  you  in  charge 
of  all  of  our  war  purchases.  Your  experience  is  exactly 
what  we  require.  May  I  look  to  you  to  relieve  me  of 
this  responsibility?" 

"Provided  the  sole  authority  rests  with  me." 

"That  is  clearly  understood.  Divided  responsibility 
would  be  fatal." 

"Then  I  accept,"  said  Fielding. 

"Thank  you.  The  Secretary  of  War  will  see  you  at 
once.  He  is  waiting  for  you.  His  office  is  directly  across 
the  street  from  here,"  added  the  President. 


GOLD   SHOD  241 

When  Fielding  awoke  the  next  morning  he  was  famous, 
and  within  twenty-four  hours  his  name  was  known  from 
one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other.  Newspapers  dis- 
played his  picture  and  published  elaborate  accounts  of 
his  career  and  of  the  distinguished  qualifications  which 
so  eminently  fitted  him  for  the  duties  to  which  the  Presi- 
dent had  appointed  him.  The  New  York  papers  ran 
lengthy  editorials  on  his  rapid  rise  from  obscure  origins, 
praising  the  singleness  of  purpose  that  had  governed  him 
since  his  first  appearance  in  the  motor  car  business  in 
Detroit,  and  referring  to  the  fact  that  he  never  even 
took  time  to  play  a  game  of  golf.  The  newspapers  held 
him  to  be  gifted  with  a  prodigious  ability  to  concen- 
trate continuously  upon  business,  and  made  much  of  the 
scrupulous  integrity  and  brilliant  opportunism  that  had 
carried  him  at  thirty-eight  into  this  exalted  responsibility 
for  the  expenditure  of  more  money  than  had  ever  before 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  one  man.  And,  finally,  his  private 
life  was  reported  to  be  blameless. 

Fielding  read  these  articles,  and  as  he  read,  a  satiric 
smile  wavered,  now  and  then,  to  his  lips.  So  this  was  his 
crown  of  bay! 

And  now  the  war  was  over.  Fielding  was  president 
of  a  powerful  New  York  bank,  and  chairman  of  the  board 
of  a  steel  concern. 

One  day  his  secretary  brought  him  a  card  bearing 
the  name  of  a  brilliant  young  sculptor. 

"You  have  that  board  meeting,  you  know,"  said  the  sec- 
retary. 

"I'll  see  this  man  first." 

There  was  a  glow  of  the  open  about  the  caller.  "I'm 
glad  you  remember  me,  Mr.  Glinden,"  he  said  deferen- 
tially. 

"I've  been  reading  about  your  fame  as  an  ace,"  said 
Fielding. 

"Thank  you,"  was  the  modest  reply.  "But  it's  great 
to  get  back  to  my  clay!" 


242  GOLD   SHOD 

"No  doubt." 

"Perhaps  you  recall  being  good  enough  several  years 
ago  to  speak  of  commissioning  me  to  do  the  bronze  you 
were  going  to  present  to  the  public  library." 

"I  haven't  forgotten." 

"Well,  I'm  ready!"  said  the  sculptor  with  eager  en- 
thusiasm. 

Fielding  regarded  him  with  sudden  wistfulness.  Cur- 
rents of  the  old  unquenchable  longing  welled  up  in  him. 

"What  was  your  thought  regarding  the  statue?"  asked 
the  visitor.  "What  is  your  opinion  of  something  like 
this?"  He  produced  a  rough  pencil-sketch.  "You  see, 
an  heroic  figure  at  a  desk.  An  idealized  conception  of  a 
modern  business  executive.  I  don't  think  it's  ever  been 
done.  It's  been  growing  on  me.  Does  it  appeal  to 
you?" 

Fielding  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  shouldn't  bother 
with  anything  like  that.  It  wouldn't  be  any  satisfaction 
to  me." 

"What  did  you  have  in  mind?" 

"Make  your  figure  an  artist  of  some  sort.  I'll  let  you 
have  a  picture  of  a  chap  I  used  to  know.  I  used  to  call 
him  'the  Blasphemer.'  Died  of  tuberculosis  before  he 
could  ever  accomplish  anything.  Wanted  to  write.  Sup- 
pose you  make  your  figure  look  like  him.  Get  longing 
into  it,  a  sort  of  feverish  melancholy,  perhaps,  to  symbolize 
effort  that  never  gets  by, — latent,  inexpressible,  unrecog- 
nized genius,  and — that  sort  of  thing." 

At  dinner,  Fielding  spoke  of  the  returned  sculptor. 

"Isn't  he  a  handsome  thing?"  said  Beth.  "He  would 
have  been  a  real  catch  for  some  one.  What  a  pity  he 
didn't  marry  into  some  prominent  family!" 

Nights,  when  Fielding  was  unable  to  sleep,  he  would 
leave  his  bed,  put  on  a  silk  dressing-gown  and  a  pair  of 
slippers,  and  go  to  his  tranquil  library.  Then  he  would 
turn  to  the  yellowed  pages  of  books  that  had  been  va- 
riously possessed  and  loved  by  Keats,  by  Shelley,  by  Poe. 


GOLD   SHOD  243 

Here  he  would  give  himself  over  to  ripened  reveries  that 
revolved  soothingly  through  his  mind. 

He  would  think  of  the  numerous  women  who  had  ap- 
pealed to  his  increasingly  fastidious  taste  since  Brenda 
had  disappeared  from  his  life.  What  an  old  woman- 
chaser  he  was  getting  to  be,  he  reflected,  as  he  visualized 
successive  forms  and  faces.  Well,  why  not?  New  York 
was  so  full  of  women,  and  so  many  of  them  were  beauti- 
ful. He  did  not  regret  his  transgressions.  He  found 
comfort  in  the  thought  of  the  opera  singers  and  actresses 
he  had  backed. 

It  was  fine  to  be  able  to  do  these  things.  It  wasn't 
every  one  who  could  make  a  name  for  himself  as  a  patron 
of  the  arts.  And  then  he  would  think  of  the  paintings 
he  had  bought,  the  statues  he  had  given,  the  chairs  of 
literature  and  of  music  he  had  endowed,  the  publishing 
house  he  was  financing,  the  honorary  degrees  that  had 
been  conferred  upon  him. 

He  realized  that,  after  all,  life  had  not  treated  him  so 
badly.  And  after  a  while,  soothed  by  his  meditations, 
he  would  return  to  his  bedroom,  filled  with  a  mellow  and 
gratifying  glow. 


THE    END 


A     000127116     2 


I^BHB^^DBH  , 


